Bête Noire
by grayorca
Summary: DISCONTINUED. In which James Norrington learns not to assume all mythoi are fiction. Temeraire crossover. Post CotBP. AU for both fandoms. Rated for violence and language in later chapters.
1. Bad Timing

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** _Temeraire_ is an alternative history/fantasy series (four books, so far) written by Naomi Novik, and explores the realm of what could have been possible if England ever had the Aerial Corps, an air force consisting of dragons and their aviators. The overall story focuses on Captain William Laurence, once of the Royal Navy, who comes into possession of an especially rare Chinese Celestial, Temeraire. For a more detailed synopsis, visit the article at Wikipedia.

Set during the Napoleonic Wars of the 1800s, they don't quite correspond with the PotC timeline (1700s). That's both a good and bad thing when it comes to a crossover. The bad is in that there's no real way to involve major elements of one with the other without the obvious time jump, backwards or forwards. The good - there are still some things to write about, given artistic license, that can incorporate little snippets of the _Temeraire_ universe.

Should this be finished in the long run, perhaps the sequel will be set within _Temeraire_.

This is more of a humorous drama for a reason. How it is written is far more... sarcastic and adage-filled than my usual writings are. There are also elements of adventure present. Everything else comes in minor doses.

And the chapters may be short, or long. It'll vary from about this size to longer.

Enjoy.

Flames, as usual, will be disregarded.

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_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

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_Chapter One - Bad Timing_

To the untrained eye, the necklace was quite beautiful. Sapphires and peridots, all polished to a high shine, strung together on a fine string. The stones themselves were small, making it a very light piece of jewelry. It was obviously meant for finer purposes than simple wealth. Something to be worn; perhaps it would compliment a fine blue dress.

To James Norrington, it was just one of many unexceptional pieces of clutter, congesting both sides of the dock, and nothing else.

He was more than a little irate about the whole situation. This wasn't how he intended to spend the remainder of the day. Overseeing the offloading of the barquentine's cargo was a nothing task, and a wholly unexpected one at that. It so happened that the ship in question, H.M.S. _Echelon_, was back two weeks earlier than expected. She could tie-up nowhere else but at the Navy's pier, filling the empty space where the _Interceptor_ once sat.

Baxter Darrow had sent no word to the forewarning effect of a premature return. That fact in and of itself was enough to make Norrington suspicious on a good day. He knew this particular captain was stringent when it came to making sure his superiors were aware of every little change in his ship's whereabouts and status. Darrow himself was acting odd, to make things all the more interesting. Two hours after arriving in to Port Royal, and still he had failed to report for a debriefing, or even to appear on deck.

What was it? The _Echelon_ had taken prisoners, true enough. Norrington had seen the sorry-looking Frenchmen being marched off to Fort Charles. It both annoyed and bewildered him. Why hadn't Darrow paroled them in Kingston? Practically, it made more sense: Kingston was the _Echelon_'s home port.

All of this, on the evening of the same day Jack Sparrow escaped, for the second time.

One day's head start. In that time, his men should have been at work, outfitting the _Dauntless_ for the impending voyage. Many of his lieutenants would be busy at Fort Charles or elsewhere, patching together an able crew to replace those who had been killed or injured at Isla de Muerta.

Instead, his sailors and Wright's Marines were spending their time hauling half-depleted supplies out of the _Echelon_, and the lieutenants were obligated to supervise. And he, Norrington, was here, dilly-dallying about, waiting for Darrow to finally decide to step off his boat onto dry land.

Norrington hadn't imposed out of respect for his colleague. At the time, it seemed reasonable to give Baxter some time to shore up his explanation. Surely the mysterious reason was a good one.

Now, with the sun gradually disappearing behind the headland, and his patience along with it, he had had it with waiting.

The Commodore deposited the necklace where he had found it, among the many other crates of acquired wares, and ascended the gangplank at long last. He ignored the mildly bemused look of Theodore Groves, over by the forecastle, and made his way aft. Anyone else along the gangway was quick to stand aside.

_What could he possibly be so preoccupied with?_

A harried voice, and approaching footfalls, answered his knock at the cabin door. "Lieutenant Sanderson, I thought I had made it abundantly clear - " The door swung open with a great slam against the bulkhead. Darrow's initial look of righteous anger vanished abruptly at his realization that his visitor was not poor Lieutenant Sanderson. Openly embarrassed, the captain's mouth snapped shut, and his face turned a bright red. His gray-blue eyes dropped to the floor, cowed by the mere sight of his superior.

"Good evening, Captain." Norrington's tone was deceptively placid. "And, if I may add, welcome back."

"Sir, may - I beg your pardon," Darrow quickly stepped aside, allowing him inside. "I-I was not expecting your arrival so soon after putting in."

Norrington scanned his surroundings with an indifferent air, savoring the older man's nervousness, duly noting the disheveled nature of the cabin's furnishings. It was quite the opposite scene one might have expected of such a meticulously minded man's quarters.

"That is peculiar. Your messenger was impeccably clear on the emphasis for speed," Norrington said calmly. "He advised me to come here with all haste, on _your_ word. But is it not customary for the commander of a vessel to receive his visitors in person?"

Darrow said nothing at first. His face remained flushed as he hurried to his desk and cleared a seat. "I trusted the cargo and prisoners to be dealt with in short order. Your wait could not have been that long." He continued to avoid eye contact.

Norrington glared at him nonetheless. He remained standing. "It was a little over two hours long, to be exact."

Genuine surprise was quickly swallowed up by shame. "Commodore, please accept my sincerest apologies. I did not mean to render you with such an inconvenience. I meant to send notice, but - "

Taking the seat, Norrington was careful to now only allow minimal scorn to show on the surface. He crossed his arms. "Baxter, instead of falling all over yourself, wasting your breath stammering out apologies, why don't you simply tell me why it is you're back on such short notice?"

That shut him up quick. After a final moment of hesitation, Darrow sat, set his arms upon the desk, and managed a shaky exhalation. He met the scrutinizing eyes at last. "That is precisely my dilemma, sir. I'm not soundly sure how to make sense of my motives to you without them seeming inept."

Norrington frowned, irritated though intrigued by the cryptic response. "Start with where the prisoners came from." _I'll decide for myself whether your subsequent actions were so incompetent._

Darrow explained. Initially, he was reluctant in getting the facts out. But as the words failed to spark any more rage on the Commodore's part, they came with more ease, less difficulty. The last few weeks aboard the _Echelon_ had not seen much action, until they had crossed paths with the _Seraphine_.

The Frenchmen were the remains of a once-proud pirate crew. Their ship now rested at the bottom of the ocean, scuttled in the aftermath of the ensuing conflict. Four of her crew had fallen to every Echeloner lost. The tattered band of survivors had agreed to lay down their arms on the condition that the _Echelon_ would take on their ship's cargo. It was the dying captain's wishes, allegedly.

It was a reasonable, if unusual, request. After seeing the brimming stores of gold, jewelry, and fine art, Darrow hadn't argued nay at the time. The battle-scarred _Seraphine_ was old, ragged, and leaky; she would be of no use to the Royal Navy. Her current cargo was all that remained of a wealthy French frigate, the _Rèbecca_. She had been boarded, looted, and scuttled no more than three days earlier. This rendition of events further nurtured Darrow's professionally-excused greed. Reaping the benefits of a rival country's misfortune had seemed prudent. Only later did he see the oddities of the arrangement.

Why had the pirates cared so much? Facing incarceration, it wasn't as if they would be free to spend any of it.

They did not appear to care. Voluntarily, the defeated men had assisted in the transfer, hauling boxes and bundles of supplies with them onto the naval vessel. Toward sundown, they had grown restless, and seemed especially concerned with moving one particular crate on board, and insisted it be handled with the greatest care. It had been secured and, at their request, been put under guard.

In hindsight, it was truly bizarre behavior. Gears of thought turning slowly, Norrington felt his anger wane, to be replaced by polite bewilderment.

"What was in this crate?" he found himself asking.

"They weren't very forthcoming with that little detail," Darrow replied. Relaxed, he had made a great deal more sense than he claimed he wouldn't. "I assumed it was something of great significance, and not just to the common pirate's eye."

With his brow furrowed, Norrington processed this in less than a minute. Without mincing words, he said, "You return two weeks ahead of schedule on behalf of a box that might have something valuable inside it?"

Darrow's shoulders hunched, almost imperceptivity, at the précis. He said nothing and looked sheepish again.

To his inward surprise, Norrington found no kindling to draw an appropriate emotion from. His mind felt suddenly blank. Silence ensued as he digested what this meant.

Darrow was right. That had been a pretty stupid choice.

And because his ship was one of Norrington's regional squadron, it implicated the Commodore in a less-than-smart light.

"Please say you at least _looked_ inside."

More silence answered him. The color was starting to seep back into the captain's face.

Norrington didn't bother stifling the sigh, or the great eye roll of exasperation. This was completely out of character. Baxter Darrow had over fifteen years of naval experience, and came from a distinguished Navy-loving family. He was certainly smart enough to know not to trust the withheld word of a pirate without verification.

Surely he trusted his own good judgment. How could it have failed him now?

"Enlighten me: why?"

For this, Darrow choked out, "I... thought it sensible to keep its contents unknown to all parties involved, and to dissuade the crew from conducting any petty thievery."

There would be another thing the _Echelon_ was known for. Whatever the crop, her seamen were very bad at keeping their noses out of officers' business, or their hands out of the supplies. The master-at-arms was one of the most experienced floggers in the squadron. All the more reason there was to keep that crate under guard.

"It is still aboard?"

"I gave explicit directions that it was not to be touched without orders from myself or Lieutenant Sanderson."

Norrington's gaze wandered involuntarily toward the door. He glanced sideways, back at the man across the desk from him. "Shall we get this over with, then?" he asked flatly.

He felt no more frustration. The ramifications, what this meant if it was a fool's folly, if O'Rourke had anything to say about it, were more worrisome. His concern now was for his neck.

That same concern was kept under a blank mask during the venture to the hold. By way of covering the turmoil, he distanced his thoughts from it, beckoning to Groves and summoning Andrew Gillette. Secrecy was not to be a fickle thing here, and he knew they would not spread the news lightly.

For their part, the lieutenants were understandably baffled. They did not ask what the matter was. Questioning glances conveyed more than a spoken word.

The aft-most hold was barren and dark. Lanterns had already been struck up to ward off the shadows. Two Marines stood at half-attention to either side of the sole piece of ballast. Nearby, a gangly lieutenant Norrington did not immediately recognize pushed off from where he had been leaning against the bulkhead. "Captain, Commodore Norrington," he said, touching his hat in salute.

"At ease, Sanderson," Darrow acknowledged, and then nodded to the two redcoats. Without hesitation they went to work with prying the crate apart.

"Sirs, if I may inquire, what is this about?" Groves finally spoke up.

"Captain Darrow is of the impression some valued thing is within this crate," Norrington explained patiently. "Whatever it may be, it is the chief reason he saw fit to return to Port Royal so early."

Groves merely raised an eyebrow, whereas Gillette looked rightfully appalled. "All of this for one measly box?" he uttered in disbelief.

Norrington gave a very small shrug, an unspoken _It doesn't make perfect sense to me, either_.

Moments later, the top of the crate was wrenched free. Sanderson knelt, set it aside, and felt experimentally through the straw-stuffed interior. Abruptly, with a puzzled frown, he pulled his hand back.

Darrow stepped forward. "Lieutenant?"

"It's definitely something odd, sir." Sanderson peered into the crate again, cautiously plucking handfuls of the golden straw out. His audience inched forward.

One of the redcoats raised a lantern. In its orange glow, the... whatever it was looked black, gleaming blue where the light glinted upon the round, smoothly curved surface. At the size of a large coconut, it occupied most of the crate. What room there was to spare was brimming over with straw.

Norrington squinted at it, more mystified than anything by this discovery.

Weirder and weirder.

"What is it?" Groves asked over the Commodore's shoulder.

"Some sort of stone?" the Marine with the lantern offered.

"Now what could be so valuable about that?" Gillette.

"Gentlemen," Norrington said firmly, effectively silencing their overlapping questions. "Captain?"

Darrow scratched at his ear, staring wide-eyed at the object. "It's nothing like I expected, sir. At that, I'm not sure what it is the pirates would find so precious about it."

Norrington already had a fairly good idea, and the more he thought about it, the more dismayed it left him feeling.

All of this hassle for a bloody rock.

Suddenly Sparrow's escape was no longer the worst thing on his mind.

How was he ever going to explain this one?

"Your orders, sir?"

The _Echelon_'s captain wasted no time transferring command of the parcel to his superior.

Norrington thought momentarily about his options, and voiced the first words that occurred to him. "Close the crate. Have it transported to the fort. Gillette, arrange a detail to escort them." He straightened up.

"To where within?"

"Storage. Preferably close to my office."

Sanderson favored him with a curious glance. "What shall we tell the prisoners, Commodore?"

"The prisoners?"

"They asked to be informed of as to what we decided to do with it, sir."

Norrington scowled. "Their knowledge isn't my concern. We tell them nothing." The Frenchmen had no bargain with him.

He wasn't totally sure what he intended to do about it just yet, either.

**TBC**

**Notes:** If James seems out of character, don't fret. Fouling up a routine execution, losing your fiancée, having a monkey wrench thrown into your plans, and knowing you're going to be facing an angry boss is enough to make anyone cranky.

As for the two other canons, Gillette and Groves, I'm of the opinion that their personalities are a matter of the author's interpertation. Their roles will become more defined throughout the plot.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 1/3/08


	2. Standby To Stand By

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** I'm still trying to find a balance between canon and original elements in this story. Know that. I may have chosen Norrington as the main character, but the gang's all going to be here.

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_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

-----

_Chapter Two - Standby To Stand By_

The scene down at the pier was concluded without any further drama. With admitting his lapse in conduct, free of blame, Darrow was back in his element. The good captain would monitor the cataloging of the wares. There was no further need for Norrington to remain here. So the Commodore accompanied the squad of Marines back to Fort Charles, oversaw that the crate was secured under lock and key, and spent the next hour alone, the door to his office shut tight, intending to think.

What he did was worry.

Joseph O'Rourke was not a very understanding character. A disposition toward perfectionism and a steely attitude was what made him such an effective admiral. Under his watch, the smallest mistake, the tiniest, visible flaw, would not be tolerated. The man was a living, breathing example of stoic authority. He didn't let petty things like emotion affect his decisions. True, he wasn't well liked by the Admiralty (as displayed in their reluctance to advance him to vice-admiral). He didn't pay mind to their opinion, and his record would shield him from persecution in any event of it.

In essence, he wasn't a bad role model. Norrington knew he wasn't O'Rourke, couldn't be, and had never pretended otherwise. He shared the admiral's principles of justice and objectivity, though. They were good qualities. All he could do was carry out his duties to the best of his abilities and weather the outcomes. Unlike his superior, he did not pursue perfectionism in all fields. Trying to eradicate piracy was like trying to wipe sand off a beach. He did his job and hoped those efforts made it tolerable for the ordinary merchant to traverse a given body of water in relative safety.

The truth of the matter was that O'Rourke wasn't as young as he once was. His campaigns in the southern Atlantic, against the Portuguese and the Spanish, were manna for the history books. These last few years he had been confined to Kingston, the superintendent of all Royal Navy interests in the Caribbean Sea. The rumor was he resented the constraint deeply, and took his frustration out on those unfortunate enough to founder in their responsibilities.

Then there were the factors of rank and title. Commodore was a designation, a temporary one. It could be revoked. One wrong word from the right person's mouth could render Norrington a post-captain on the spot. Smarts were good, and if they were good enough, the Admiralty appointed a single mind to govern the actions of two or more fellow captains. It was a logical tactic. Should one of those captains commit a big enough sin, the bulk of the blame reverberated back onto that captain's supervisor.

Norrington was bothered by what Darrow had brought to the table. Like it or not, the captain had borne an inconvenience bigger than a long wait at the docks. This new matter had to be addressed. In the meantime, the _Black Pearl_ would sail further and further away. The priority now was gleaning the prisoners for information, discerning just what that crate was about, and seeing if any of it was of greater significance than pursuing Jack Sparrow.

The clash between conduct expected of a commander and the word of one's mouth was never pretty, and that was where the worry stemmed from.

Which avenue to take?

A knock at the door put a stopper to his conflicting thoughts.

"Come in."

The visitor was a redcoated messenger, immaculate from the wig down to the black boots. Noting the boyish face and the brown eyes, he placed the façade with a name: Sergeant Lyle Brigance, Wright's unofficial adjutant and nephew.

Saluting, the sergeant relayed, "Sir, the captain wishes to inform you that an able guard of Marines has been assembled. The appropriate notices are en route, and the clerks have started to revise the _Dauntless_' roster."

Norrington stifled a sigh of relief. That wait hadn't been a total loss. Miles had had the presence of mind to appoint some of his assistants to the other tasks at hand.

"Very well, Brigance. Send my compliments to the captain."

_Captain Wright is always right._ Norrington allowed a small smile to form. The simple quib never got old.

However, the smile disintegrated as he remembered. Who was to say the _Dauntless_ was going anywhere? Word hadn't gotten around yet.

"Sergeant?"

The closing door opened back up again. "Yes, sir?"

"Kindly pass the word for Lieutenants Gillette, Groves, Taylor, and Lane, please. And the captain, if he is not too preoccupied."

It would be another ten minutes before the officers assembled. Norrington knew this went against his better judgment, divulging word about what might not even come to pass. All the same, he couldn't see the harm in giving them the heads-up. Gillette and Groves already knew about the crate. Wright, Taylor, and Lane were entitled to the same edification.

On that note, he requested two guards move the said item to his office for the time being. He relinquished the surface of his oak desk for its placement. A strange desire to look inside again rose within him, but he willed his hands to fold behind his back, to wait.

From their nearby posts, Gillette and Groves were quick to respond to the summons. Groves redundantly made adjustments to his uniform, wisely keeping his mouth shut, as always. Gillette frowned as his eyes fell on the crate. Thankfully, he, too, said nothing.

Miles Wright made his entrance soon after, quick for a solid, stout man going on fifty. A seasoned battle veteran, he was the most decorated Marine in Port Royal, retaining no-nonsense way of operation. Most times this cast him in the same light as Admiral O'Rourke. It often came as a surprise to many when the captain laughed, capable of enjoying a good joke.

Joshua Taylor practically trotted in. He was a robust, energetic individual, someone who rarely lost his temper, and - being so amicable - a favorite officer among the crew. The man was absolutely tireless, as if he were born with some uncommon immunity to fatigue. He appeared to relish the nighttime hours, always staying one step ahead of his weary comrades.

To the opposite effect, Samuel Lane certainly looked worn out, as his slow arrival testified to. He was around Brigance's age, though shorter, and the youngest of the _Dauntless_' lieutenants. Quiet by default, he was best described as observant, capable, and sly. He murmured a greeting to his colleagues and tried his best to look awake.

"Well, James, you've successfully commissioned this little conference. What's it all about?" Wright's voice was good humored, something to belay the tension in the air.

Norrington knew better than to accept it at face value. "It is just a mild informance. This will not take long," he assured the epauletted redcoat.

"I trust you're all mindful of the prematurity of the _Echelon_'s return," he began tonelessly. "That being so, you know of the prisoners she took on, and the events that resulted in their detainment. It should not have a significant bearing on our impending pursuit of the _Black Pearl_."

The uninitiated were interested. Apprehension was dawning on Wright's face, Taylor looked curious, and Lane appeared a little less sleepy.

"To be frank, gentlemen, I'd be lying if I were to say that was true."

Three sets of eyes turned toward the crate.

Norrington felt a fleeting moment of incredulity. This was human inquisitiveness at its worst. _Not yet, you eager gits._ "It does not have to do with that box."

Taylor glanced at him, blue eyes radiating confusion. "Then where does the problem lie, sir?" he inquired.

"With the prisoners," Norrington answered. "Until each of them have been questioned and tried, the _Dauntless_ is to remain at anchor."

The silence wasn't one of shock. With the exception of Gillette's raised eyebrows, the congregation was unmoved.

"But you said we were to allow only one day's - "

"I am well aware of what I said, Samuel," Norrington replied quippishly. To his credit, the lieutenant didn't shrink away from the tone. "What I mean to tell you here and now is that I do not think protocol will make an allowance for us to proceed as we have planned. We will not be setting sail tomorrow morning. No one knows what information the crew of the _Seraphine_ may be withholding. Until we do, we shall have to wait and see where it leads."

Apparently, this was new information for Gillette and Groves.

"How long would you expect that to take?" Gillette's tone was one of borderline exasperation.

Wright answered in lieu of the Commodore's pause. "You heard what he said, Lieutenant," he snapped. "There's no way of knowing. It'll take as long as it takes."

Norrington kept quiet, a learned behavior. Gillette and Wright had never seen eye-to-eye. Something Gillette said or did always seemed to be getting Wright into sour moods. A stupid, stubborn quarrel, in Norrington's private opinion, and one he had served in as mitigating third party for near-to five years now. It had escalated since Gillette's appointment as flag lieutenant, several months ago, and lately, since Sparrow's commandeering of the _Interceptor_.

This time, Wright broke the staredown, and the flare of quarrel slowly tapered off.

"What makes you think the Frenchmen have anything to say, sir?" Groves asked, unperturbed. "Far as I can tell, they have no real intentions of being wholly honest with us."

"They have something to hide," Norrington said, prepared for this explanation. "Captain Darrow mentioned one particular bit of hearsay, courtesy of one of his midshipmen. The _Seraphine_ did not do her bidding alone. Evidently, her captain was one side to an alleged partnership."

"Where was this second ship when the _Echelon_ happened upon them?" Taylor.

"There is one of the very questions we need answered, Lieutenant."

Another silence. His compatriots exchanged looks.

"Sir, will all respect, what is the significance of this other ship? Isn't the capture of the _Black Pearl_ a higher priority?"

Norrington pursed his lips, feigning a bit of concern. "I would think so, but, again, we can only be sure until after we know the nature of the _Seraphine_'s accomplice."

"Would she not be France's problem?" Lane.

"Pirates are pirates, no matter their nationality," Wright lectured, one of the adages he had coined over the years.

"Are we all agreed, then?"

Varying degrees of disappointment and understanding flickered across their faces. Curt nods followed as they came to accept this decision. Each one knew O'Rourke would not stand for a major miscarriage of duty for the sake of indulging a popular expectation. Not if they wished to keep their status.

Groves voiced the inevitable question. "What is the plan?"

"To interrogate each one of the new prisoners, starting at dawn tomorrow, for it has been a long day," Norrington said easily. "Finish whatever tasks you feel you must, then go home. Get some rest."

Again, they looked inquiringly at the crate. Its presence was too outstanding to disregard.

Norrington exhaled softly, substituting it for a sigh. He had asked for it. "Right, that." Resigned to telling them, he circled around to stand behind his desk. "This was brought aboard the _Echelon_ from the _Seraphine_, at the pirates' behest. The Echeloners were unable to discern exactly what it is. I thought perhaps one of you may have a more apt suggestion to offer." With that, he lifted the lid.

Wright and Lane craned their necks to see. They kept a respectful distance, as did Groves and Gillette.

Taylor, on the other hand, stepped up and peered very closely at it.

"Any ideas, Lieutenant?" Norrington prompted after a beat.

Taylor's usually cheerful countenance twisted in a bewildered frown. "One, but it's not possible," he said without making eye contact.

"Humor us."

He glanced up. "An... egg, sir?" He sounded as uncertain as he looked.

This time, the silence _did_ have a stunned quality to it. From where they stood to the side, before the hearth, Gillette and Groves looked equally astonished, as did Lane, who pressed closer.

Wright merely shook his head, looking torn between mirth and gruff disbelief. "Oh, preposturous. That is beyond absurdity," he muttered. "You've quite the imagination, Lieutenant. No creature known to mankind produces eggs of that size or color. It's ridiculous."

Taylor didn't seem to have listened. His expression remained thoughtful, undeterred.

Norrington raised an eyebrow, the extent to how his own exterior changed. Outright, he wanted to agree with the captain's reasoning. His mind chose that moment to remind him, with the ghastly images of rotting, undead pirates, that maybe mankind hadn't been exposed to all the entire world had to offer. Everything to be seen had not yet been gazed upon.

He chose his words carefully. "Miles, any opinion has merit at this point. Baxter had no guesses as to what it might be. Andrew postulated it to be some sort of stone or gem, and failing to think of anything else, I can only assume it may be one of those two things."

"Do we know where it is from?" Lane asked. Tentatively, he reached out to gently tap the stone/egg's surface.

Taylor batted his hand away almost instantly, a rare frown creasing his mouth.

Groves explained: "No. Either the pirates bartered it from some godforsaken place, or it was aboard the _Rèbecca_ when the _Seraphine_ took her. Whatever the case, it is definitely French."

"It's foreign is what it is," Gillette asserted, not standing for that biased speculation. "They may have fished it out of from some shallow sea for all we know. Whatever the case may be, James, what do you intend on doing with it?"

Norrington glanced at the object again. By the office's superior light, he could see the smoky gray blotches that hadn't been visible in the _Echelon_'s hold, breaking up the black-blue hue. The overall condition of the surface was excellent, flawless, as though someone had spent considerable time polishing it up. It might have even been counted as elegant, if it were perhaps a fraction of its present size.

"I do not know. Its worth remains to be seen. I'll settle for keeping it locked up until then, and no one is to be heedlessly told about its existence."

Gillette. "Sir, it's my understanding that all the Echeloners already know of it. Who's to tell them they should not tell others?"

"Don't go helping the rumors along, then," Wright replied snidely.

Norrington placed the lid back upon the crate, figuring the officers had seen enough. He glanced up at the clock above the mantle, noting the hour. "That will be all, gentlemen," the Commodore declared, showing them out. "Recall interrogations with begin tomorrow, and I thank you for your time. Have a pleasant evening."

The majority left it at that, politely bidding their farewells. Only Taylor hesitated at the door. He stepped over the threshold and stopped, stealing a last look over his shoulder at the crate.

"Was there something else, Lieutenant?"

Down the corridor, Gillette had turned halfway back to listen.

Taylor bit his lower lip. "No... well, sort of, sir. About the... parcel. What should happen if it is indeed a..." He trailed off, uncharacteristically leaving the query open-ended.

Norrington sighed tolerantly. "As farfetched a possibility as it is, I'm sure what would hatch from it wouldn't be anything that can't be easily dealt with." He smiled reassuringly. "Do not let it trouble you. Give my regards to your family."

Taylor looked remotely consoled. "Aye, sir." He touched his hat and took his leave without further delay.

He swept past Gillette, who was regarding the Commodore with a slightly dubious look. "Tell me you don't actually think that," he said, once Taylor's footfalls had receded.

"Of course not," Norrington replied, the smile and tolerance immediately vanishing. "Skeletal pirates are one thing, Andrew. The possibility of some mysterious, otherwordly beast spawning into the Royal Navy's hands is another."

He hadn't meant that to be funny. Gillette smirked in amusement, anyway. "Good evening, Commodore." He strode away without saluting.

Norrington let it go. Something in him lacked the motivation to rebuke his comrade. Though colleagues, as friends that sort of banter wasn't worth getting worked up about.

Rather, he shut the door, and set to work stoking a small fire. Even though the air outside was warm, Fort Charles' interior was always cool and damp. Stay idle for too long and one was liable to become chilled. This gave him something to busy his hands with, too. More than once, he found his gaze being unconsciously drawn to the crate, watching it as if some terrible monster _was_ about to come bursting out.

Why did it have to be pirates?

The events of Isla de Muerta were fresh on many minds throughout the fort. It had brought out a lot of unknown characteristics and put to rest a lot of assumptions. Some folk had turned out to be not that courageous, while the opposite became true of their inferiors. The most superstitious were hardly rattled; the remaining pragmatists had been anywhere from mildly unsettled to utterly horror-stricken. The last thing any of the men needed were some more strange things happening in their lives. Maybe it wasn't so bad that the _Dauntless_' voyage had been put on hold.

Naturally, his more-gallant instincts rebelled against the argument. _So what if the men are a little rattled, sure as if they had lived through their first sea battle_, it seemed to seethe. _They'll get over it. The best way to remedy their misgivings would be to get back to business as usual._

Business as usual. Norrington scoffed. What precisely did that now entail? Were the skeletons only a taste of what was to come?

His hands built the fire up to a healthy size of their own volition. He decided to let the query go unanswered. Like many other things, one could only wait and see.

His quarters were nothing fancy. They were far less spacious than the office they bordered, akin to many of the barracks the Marines kept. Contrary to popular belief, he did not feel the desire to decorate his dwellings with mementoes and trophies of half-forgotten journeys and past conquests. The Commodore prefered to live in the moment whenever practical. Besides a window, a cot, coat stand, and wardrobe stocked with spare uniforms, there wasn't much else.

Norrington supposed the simplicity of it was why it made sense to stow the crate in there. No room was more secure. He was the only soul to set foot in here on a semi-frequent basis. A guard stood outside his office during daylight hours. Besides, everyone was to assume he had had the crate locked up in one of the countless storage rooms throughout the fort. Any would-be thieves wouldn't have any beginner's luck in finding it.

He slid the box to sit at the foot of the cot, and then stood back to see it didn't look out of place in the slightest. Satisfied that was dealt with, he returned to the office. There were still a few piles of reports to read and other official-type things to address before turning in for the night.

Hopefully it would get his mind back on track.

**TBC**

**Notes:** You might be wondering. Why isn't James being tormented by thoughts of Elizabeth? Simple. This story isn't a romance/angst. The way I see it, Norrington can be a little more understanding than he was portrayed in the movies. Say, in the interlude between CotBP and DMC, the hurricane didn't happen, and Will and Elizabeth's marriage had gone on uninterrupted. How might he have coped?

He wouldn't have sat around moping; I'm sure of that.

Yes. I will admit _Bête Noire_ being AU might have something to do with it, too.

Don't worry. He'll be a little bitterer about the whole deal in chapters to come.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 1/4/08


	3. Do Not Open 'Til Christmas

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** I know there have been breaks in the timeline between chapters one and two. This is where a consistent scene-to-scene tirade begins. Elizabeth makes her debut in this part, and know that while I may be a Norribether, in this story they are nothing more than friends, with hints of a big brother-little sister relationship.

This chapter's title is dedicated in homage to one of my favorite lines of _Halo 2_. As was chapter one's to _Farscape_.

As for this opening scene: I figure, you live more than five years in the Caribbean, and you lose all tolerance for cold temperatures.

-----

_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

-----

_Chapter Three - Do Not Open 'Til Christmas_

The Commodore narrowed his eyes in the torchlight, listening to the murmur of voices in the next room. He heard a rumble of thunder, the only penetrating sign of the tropical shower raging outside, as it drowned out the muffled words. This wing was out of the way, in the fort's southwestern corner, and had been an atypical setting for interrogations in the past. It practically guaranteed an absence of interruptions.

A dank breeze suddenly wafted through the corridor. Norrington, arms wrapped around himself, hunched his shoulders, warding off another involuntary shiver. It so happened this was the lowest, coldest level of the fort, too.

It had been three days since the _Echelon_'s arrival. Interrogations had been slow-going and invariable, so he had been told. Their execution was on top of daily tasks like drilling and general fort maintenance. The trials had been put on hold, to that effect, giving the prosecution something to offer by way of plea-bargaining. Turning on one's cohort in exchange for a lesser sentence wasn't unreasonable. It all depended on how stubborn the defendants were.

The Seraphinians behaved like most of those pirates who had come before them, and were a very bullheaded crowd. Captured, facing the gallows, a pirate typically did one of two things: testify against his shipmates, or keep quiet. And so far every one of them had chosen to do the latter.

Whatever the lieutenants were doing or saying didn't appear to be working. Norrington considered this, and had examined the possibility of supervising them from here on out. That was how he came to be found as a so-far benign audience to this discussion, trying to listen in through stone walls, praying he did not catch a cold in the meantime.

At long last, the heavy door swung open. He turned to face it, folding his chilled hands behind him.

Two long faces. Groves and Lane.

He suspected the news as not good. "Well?"

"Nothing courtesy of that one, either, sir," Lane wiped the glob of saliva from his face with a disgusted glower, flinging it to the stone floor. He was inexperienced with how these proceedings operated. Fluent in French, and Spanish, his job here was that of translator. "Nothing informative, anyway."

A pair of Marines marched by, hauling a shackled, filthy figure along between them. Norrington caught a glimpse of a dark, withering pair of eyes glaring at him from under the mop of unruly black hair. The prisoner came to his feet long enough to run off a string of curses, in French, at the stoic Commodore, before his escorts yanked him away.

The inherent hate between the English and the French wasn't helping matters.

"Have they all been like that?"

"Every one thus far," Groves admitted, gazing after the disappearing trio with distaste.

"He appeared to recognize who you are, sir," Lane observed. "I doubt the next one will be any more willing to negotiate, especially should you preside over his questioning."

Norrington had no reply for that. He knew it made sense. So did letting Groves continue to conduct these meetings. Neither road was guaranteed to produce results, though. Lane was probably tired of being spat at, taking the brunt for the interrogator's questions.

Of those he knew, there was no one else to enlist. Gillette's mixed heritage wouldn't do them any favors. Wright would be more inclined to extract information under threat of bodily harm, which was a no-no. Taylor, without a sword in hand, was too inclined to give the benefit of the doubt.

They were running out of defendants, too. More than half of the pirates had already had their turn.

Groves and Lane were looking expectantly at him, waiting for a decision.

"Are Darrow and his crew still taking shore leave at this time?" Norrington asked.

"Far as we know, sir."

Nothing in the Articles said it had to be one crew's duty to fulfill another's. The very notion almost made him burn with resentment.

"Did they question the prisoners during the journey back?"

"That, you'd have to inquire of them."

Norrington made up his mind in that instant. Respect for a colleague be damned. Baxter could offer more of a helping hand. These were his prisoners after all. If not him, there was that lieutenant in the ship's hold, Sanderson. Perhaps he -

Approaching footfalls derailed that train of thought. In the poor light, he barely recognized who the redcoated guard was, the same one that had been stationed at his office.

"Yes, Shaara?"

The private saluted smartly. "Beggin' your pardon, Commodore, but you have a visitor."

So much for absence of interruptions.

Norrington frowned. "Can it not wait?" he asked reservedly.

"Sir, it's the governor's daughter."

"I'll be there momentarily." The words were out of his mouth before Norrington knew he had spoken them. Inwardly realizing this, he turned his face away so they would not notice the slight grimace.

Lane had the presence of mind to dismiss Shaara. Groves seemed to note how his friend's well-restrained demeanor hid an undercurrent of distress. "Sir, what shall we - "

"Cease all interrogations. You are not to resume them until I tell you otherwise. Locate Lieutenant Sanderson, and have him report to my office. Do not tell him why."

He left them with that.

Norrington departed shortly afterwards, oblivious to whomever he happened to pass on the way back to his office. The very tempting urge to curse aloud irked at him. More infuriating was the sudden wash of emotions that assaulted his senses. It was a debilitating mix of surprise, worry, and even anger that he could not grasp. He despised not being in control. Being it was over something as frivolous as a little fear made him loathe the situation even more.

All of that put aside, one question dominated his thoughts: what could she possibly be here for?

Grounded by his own ruling, it wasn't possible to get away from her. He just concentrated on his job with fresh resolve, as though not thinking about her would make it all go away. Neglecting his need to rest these last seventy-two hours had proved useful. Collapsing from exhaustion into a dead, dreamless sleep was a new bliss, and a tactic he had only employed on rare occasion throughout his career. Even withering the hours away, staring at the crate in his quarters, wondering what it was seemed to take his mind off her.

His route took him by windows that faced west. The skies were ugly, gray, still seeping rain with no signs of clearing out. A certain bitterness rose, looking at them. Whatever her reasons, couldn't she have waited for a nicer day? He couldn't remember her ever coming to him out of a need for friendly company during their courtship.

Norrington mentally rephrased the question: what did she _want_ from him this time?

His irritation spiked at that. After what felt like a ridiculously long walk, he arrived at his destination.

The office was empty. Save for the patter of rain on the balcony windows, the weak crackle of a dying fire it was eerily silent.

Norrington stood, dumbfounded, at the entrance. Green eyes scanned the space, resting on the door to his quarters last.

It was open, slightly ajar.

"Miss Swann?"

A soft, startled gasp rewarded him.

Elizabeth Swann quickly stepped into view. Clad in a cream-colored dress and bonnet to match, a white shawl wrapped about her shoulders. A soft blush rose on her cheeks, borne of surprise and, yes, what-looked-like guilt.

Odd. She was very much alone. Had she sent her escort out, or made her way here without one?

It wouldn't be the first time.

Norrington made no effort to restrain the scowl of disapproval that crossed his face. "How may I help you?" Without missing a beat he removed his hat and bowed low in greeting, as he was expected to. _That's it. Act as though she hasn't done anything wrong._

It was her turn to be nervous, if only for a second.

It was an awkward way to meet. He crossed the room, circling around behind the desk, unintentionally, intentionally backing her away from the door, all done without meeting her eyes. Reluctantly, she surrendered her place, to stand by the empty seat before his desk. He allowed the irritation fade to a blank slate.

All the while Elizabeth managed to find some semblance of a proper greeting, curtsy and all, to match his bow. "Commodore, good day. I'd hoped you weren't too preoccupied to offer a moment of your time, and in that event that you aren't, I hope you'll forgive my intrusion."

Hollow formalities. How she was expected to address him. All the more reason to believe she had come with something on her mind.

"It is no trouble in the least, Miss Swann. Please, sit." Once she had, he sat, and pulled his chair up to the desk. "Now that that's out of the way, what say we don't dance around the subject?"

Elizabeth was not known for being taken aback. In this case, she looked the definition of it. "I'm sorry?"

"Why are you here?"

Her words found a little more confidence as she explained. "I heard tell of a curious rumor, and I thought it best to verify its facts."

"Oh? What rumor would that be?"

"Why is it you haven't taken the _Dauntless_ to sea?" Elizabeth appeared genuinely interested, perhaps even concerned. _For what reason_, Norrington wondered. "Wasn't it your intention to set sail two days ago?"

"It was."

He let it drop there, to bewilder her even more. "May I inquire as to why?"

"Circumstances have changed. You know as well as I the _Echelon_'s arrival was unexpected. She had stores of cargo to catalogue and prisoners to process. We were forced to rotate our priorities accordingly."

A pause.

"That is all?"

"That is all it was," Norrington offered the affirmative. The mask of authority remained unmoved. "Why? What does this rumor consist of?"

The blush came again. "It described something to the effect that you have not pursued Captain Sparrow out of a compulsion to not go against my wishes."

His guard dropped at that, allowing a slightly puzzled complexion to fade through. Her wishes? Sided as she was with the pirate, she had pleaded of him no such thing.

"I can assure you that that was not the case," he finally replied. "Any decisions I have made are in the interests of this new situation Captain Darrow has made me aware of."

Her gaze was intense, searching his face for any sign of a lie. It made him uncomfortable. "Truly?"

"In every way," Norrington said, nodding. He quickly added, "I would have done as I declared just as if the _Echelon_ hadn't come in."

Elizabeth seemed assured, reassured, to hear it, which was why it bothered him so when she broke eye contact.

"Was there anything else, Miss Swann?"

Uncertainty marred her features when she met his eyes again. Her own showed a glint of concern. "How have you been, James?"

The use of his first name undermined his defenses even more. For once, he opted for silence, letting it be the placeholder for his reply.

"We haven't spoken since... Well, in a while, and Father and I have both wondered if you were well. The lieutenant said you've been spending much of your time here. I wanted to be sure that there is no ill-will between us." She pulled the shawl more securely about herself.

Norrington made a point of glancing past her, at the smoldering embers in the fireplace. The air was growing cooler.

Elizabeth mistook it for evasion. "Do you hold it against me?"

"Not in the least," Norrington said, almost too smartly. He stopped there, hesitating, gazing into her worried face. How much of that was a fib?

He had no delusions about how Elizabeth had used him, how she had played to his affections to suit her means. At the same time, he knew she hadn't strung him along solely out of a desire to cause him pain. She had done it to save Will Turner's life, out of love for _him_. The recant that came later was inevitable. She hadn't meant it, like she hadn't meant it when she said she accepted his 'proposal'.

He hated what she had done.

He didn't hate her.

And the more imploring she appeared, the more difficult it was for Norrington to stay angry with her.

"I could never express any animosity toward you, Miss Swann, whatever the circumstances. You're... I understand what you did wasn't out of spite. Mr. Turner's well-being was your priority, and I should have seen that for what it was sooner. It was... foolish of me to think you would have done it for any other reason besides. On that note, I don't think I would have gone through with the idea of marriage, not if it meant you sacrificing your happiness to sustain my own."

His eyes were directed elsewhere now, toward the floor. His insides were burning with embarrassment, and cursed his traitorous vocal chords for suddenly taking on a will of their own. He hadn't admitted that out loud, had he?

The honesty seemed to do the trick, though.

The sudden, very foreign sensation of her hand resting on his was enough reason to look up.

Elizabeth was smiling, gratefully, kindly. "I'm glad to hear that, James. I'd hoped it would not become a source of contention between us, and I'm relieved to know you feel the same."

She withdrew her hand. "But before we put it to rest, I have one last request of you, Commodore."

"Which is?"

"I still count you as a friend. And as my friend, you will still call me Elizabeth whenever propriety allows it."

The corners of his mouth quirked up involuntarily. One of her never-ending campaigns. "Very well, my dear."

There was not much in the way of an apology.

It was a start nonetheless.

Their conversation went smoothly after that. With rain continuing to fall and no need to hurry home, the governor's daughter did not leave straightaway. They reviewed each other's knowledge of the _Echelon_ and her state of affairs, with Norrington's enlightened responses clearing up the inaccuracies of Elizabeth's account. He rose only to stoke the fire, and offered to send for tea and biscuits, which she politely declined. At length, they even discussed how Elizabeth was getting along with her love, the blacksmith. With the fire brought back to a healthy intensity, the office warmed along with the words.

It was just like old times, in a way. She had come to his office for discussion on many an occasion since the crossing from England. He was sorely inexperienced when it came to romance and courtship. This casual conversation was far more endurable for him, and Elizabeth appeared to delight in it. Maybe it was for the best that their friendship would remain at that.

An hour or two had to have passed before he finally brought it up. "One thing continues to trouble me."

"What is that?"

"Your little, unattended visit to my quarters," Norrington aimlessly waved a hand toward said door. "Very few individuals besides you have been as privileged to gaze at them. I was wondering what drove you to it."

"Oh." The easy-going atmosphere vanished. Elizabeth looked alarmed, fearful of enduring some age-old lesson about how she wasn't supposed to have gone in there without consent. "That. Well, I-I was only - "

"Elizabeth, do not fret. I will not re-lecture you on what I know you already know about respecting someone else's boundaries."

She managed a brief smile. "I wondered about what they looked like, of course. They are rather Spartan in comparison to what someone might expect of a Commodore."

"Ah, well, there is enough pomp and fuss between the running of a ship, the regulations of the fort, and the endless ceremonies. I have never cared for any of it very much. Why continue that practice unto the room I now spend most of my days in?"

"Indeed," Elizabeth intoned, in a playful imitation, and they both managed a laugh.

"Was there anything else?"

"One thing comes to mind," Elizabeth said, after pondering the query. She absently twirled a lock of hair about one finger. "The servants said there was a particular parcel that the _Echelon_ took aboard from the pirates. A crate, that no one knows exactly what is inside it. I've heard that it was a... rock of some kind?"

Norrington could not help a small sigh. The infamous mystery crate had found its way into the discussion yet again. "We think it's believed to be a stone or jewel of some value," he explained leniently, omitting Taylor's thesis. "The pirates thought as much when they placed it in Baxter's command. So far I fail to see what is altogether significant in its design."

"Why not get rid of it?" Her head tilted to one side.

"The Seraphinians are Frenchmen, Elizabeth. Exploiting the work of an enemy country's rogues has its benefits."

"Then, what if it turns out to be nothing?"

"No one can claim we weren't mindful of the possibility that it wasn't," Norrington answered easily.

Elizabeth's gaze wandered toward the door behind him. "Is it the same crate I saw in there?" At his disbelieving look, she shrugged unapologetically. "I would think it'd be in the most secure place in Fort Charles, and since there wasn't really anything atop it..."

He offered no reply. A simple, understanding nod conveyed his thoughts.

"May I see it?"

There would be no harm in it. Norrington directed her to wait, and left to retrieve it. Lifting it from the floor was a two-handed job. As he straightened up, his eyes took note of the scene outside the solitary window.

The storm outside showed no intentions of tapering off. Rivulets of water were streaming down the glass. Occasionally, at great intervals, lightning was still lighting up the clouds and thunder continued to shake the ground. The Commodore had taken note of this, and it made him uneasy. Elizabeth said she had come by coach. Would she make it home safely in this downpour?

That same person caught him gazing out the balcony windows when he returned. "Is something wrong, James?"

Her voice yanked his thoughts back into order. "No, er, not exactly," he replied, settling the crate on the desk between them. "I worry about how the trip back to your father's manor will be, with the weather turning so foul. How were the roads on your way here?"

He went to work removing the crate's lid, carefully pulling out the loosened nails. Elizabeth stood as she replied, "They weren't that washed out. Charles is an experienced driver. It's nothing he hasn't..."

The lid was wrenched off at that moment, and her words trailed into a stunned quiet to match her staring eyes.

Frowning, Norrington looked down.

The stone was still there, nestled in the center of the aging straw.

It would have looked the same to the Commodore if it weren't for the split across its lateral line, the flaking edges to either side of the break, and the glistening, scaly, navy-blue hide that could be seen inside.

**TBC**

**Notes:** Now, I know it was a short time that Elizabeth and James discussed their ex-engagement here. But this isn't the only point in the story it will come up. They haven't buried the hatchet completely. As for the next chapter, look forward to meeting the story title's namesake.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 1/6/08


	4. Walking On Eggshells

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** Why do I write so far ahead before actually uploading anything? It's called leeway, and I'm rather partial to having some at all times.

-----

_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

-----

_Chapter Four - Walking On Eggshells_

Norrington stared into the crate, not quite certain of what to make of what he was looking at. The sight rendered him frozen with shock, completely flabbergasted. Had he the presence of mind, he would have looked up to see Elizabeth was in much the same state, with her hand to her mouth.

Irrationally, the first thing his stupefied mind could supply was _Taylor was right._

"What _is_ that?" Elizabeth's voice wasn't the shrill cry another woman might have uttered. Hers was whispered, and sounded breathless, awed by the sight.

Norrington, on the other hand, was aghast. "I haven't the slightest - "

New movement cut his statement short. Both halves of the egg pushed further apart. The emerging creature arched its back, drawing a raspy breath. A leathery, spined wing struggled through the gap, stretching lazily into the air before flapping back down into a folded position. Peculiar, stifled noises accompanied the hatchling's struggles as it worked to free itself.

Without taking his eyes off the spectacle, the Commodore circled the desk, to stand at Elizabeth's side. No sooner than he had done that did a serpentine neck lift up, straightening out of its prenatal curve, revealing the beast's face to them.

The head was angular, tapering down into a sharp nose, with prominent, knobby ridges above the closed eyes. Thick, curved horns protruded from behind those ridges, angled down, resting against the contours of the skull.

It sat that way for a moment, head raised, before the closed eyes opened to tentative slits. Norrington saw no discernable pupils, only bright, glaring yellow-white irises. It squinted at them, and did not move.

The reality of this abruptly struck him as just not possible. He was in his office, standing in dumb silence beside his ex-fiancée, with a half-hatched, demonic-looking creature resting in a box on his desk.

It was appropriately bizarre.

"James..."

The hatchling yawned wide, displaying a mouth full of shining, recurved teeth. The noise it made was of a high pitch, almost squeaky. The pupil less eyes closed; it stretched out its second wing, letting it drape over the crate's side.

"What do we do?" Elizabeth asked quietly.

"What?"

"Don't you think we should we do something?"

"Yes, but you think I'm privy to situations like this?" Norrington whispered fiercely. "Aside from shooting it, nothing else seems reasonable."

"Shooting it," Elizabeth repeated, looking at him with annoyance now, hands on her hips. "Is that the Navy's policy on how to react to anything novel?"

_No, but it's the first thing to occur to me._

The cat-sized creature remained undisturbed, taking its time with extracting itself. Any movements it made were slow and labored. It placed one, then two splayed feet upon the crate's lip, eventually coming to stand on all four stocky legs. Each foot sported three black talons, in addition to a dewclaw. A long, sinewy tail unraveled from behind it, ending in a spade-shaped tip.

Its skin was blue, a deeper shade that looked black in comparison to Norrington's own jacket. The membranes of its wings were lighter, streaked with shades of violet, speckled with grayish spots along the dorsal edges. When it blinked and opened its eyes to the full extent, the pupils shone a pale white.

Was the animal blind?

"It almost looks..." Elizabeth trailed off, edging closer. Too close. "It is a dragon?"

"A dragon?" Norrington echoed, staring at her as if she had gone mad. "Elizabeth, that is impossible."

She smirked at him over her shoulder, unconvinced. "Is it?" Well, it was a choice between her assumption and his lying eyes.

She turned back to the creature, which gazed back at her with its head ducked low. "Hello, there."

Its horned head twisted to one side; the eyes blinked once.

Norrington swallowed, ill at ease, anxiously fingering the hilt of his sword. Was the animal usually this docile, or was it biding its time, waiting for Elizabeth to come close enough to bite? He wasn't keen for her to find out which, but seeing the newborn trust she expressed held him fast. Where did she find the sudden faith in this creature that looked as though it were birthed by Hell itself?

The head rotated the other way. A forked, scarlet tongue whipped out to tickle Elizabeth's outstretched hand, eliciting a small giggle from the young woman. Encouraged by the simple communication, the creature's hind feet joined the front on the crate's edge, where it perched like some proud, strange bird. It sat up straighter, throwing its chest out, flicking the broad wings once more.

It blinked again, as though farsighted.

"Can she see us?"

"To some degree, perhaps," Norrington replied, continuing to keep his distance. Then it came back to him. "She? What makes you peg this creature as female?"

"Oh, James, it's bound to be one or the other," Elizabeth declared with a roll of her eyes. "In any event, doesn't she look like a girl to you?"

"I haven't the slightest idea what it could be," Norrington admitted, after thinking about it for a full second. "How is one supposed to identify whether a reptile is male or female?"

Elizabeth thought, offering no immediate answer to that. "Call it women's intuition. We recognize one of our own, no matter the species." She smiled knowingly, quite sure of her logic.

Norrington's brow furrowed in disbelief.

The ludicrousness of it all was staggering.

He opened his mouth to reply to that effect, just as the creature stirred, hopping easily down each step, from crate to desk to floor. Unconsciously, Norrington noted that at ground level, its shoulder was nearly parallel with his knees.

Okay. So it was the size of a fairly large cat.

_A small dog, then._

Something more instinctive than learned forced him to take a half-pace back when the animal plodded over to him for a closer look.

"Honestly, James," Elizabeth admonished, crossing her arms. "I'm surprised at you. As opposed to years of ship-to-ship battles and fencing with undead pirates, you're going to let this little darling intimidate you by looks alone?"

_Little darling. _He smothered an incredulous laugh. _As if._

The Commodore kept his eyes down and his hand at his sword, watching the hatchling's behavior as it drew closer, too close for his comfort. He willed his feet to remain still as the tongue flicked out, sampling the air beside one buckled shoe. When it craned its neck back, locking its bright eyes with his, it seemed to go very still.

Norrington had the distinct feeling of being sized up. Was that what it was trying to decide, friend from foe?

It bared its teeth in what he guessed was a timid smile. "_Bonjour, monsieur._"

It spoke.

Norrington blinked uncomprehendingly. Rather than let his thoughts slip back into helpless gridlock, he managed to choke out a surprisingly calm, "I'm sorry?"

"_J'ai dit 'bonjour, monsieur'._ _Que est votre nom?_"

The tones were amazingly feminine and melodic to be coming from such a lizard-like mouth.

Admittedly, his French was lacking; he was semi-fluent at best, better suited at comprehending than carrying on conversation. The basic greetings and syllables were still engraved, somewhere among all the manners and nautical knowledge. This creature spoke the language as confidently and flawlessly as the Seraphinian pirates.

How? Hadn't it... she just hatched no more than ten minutes ago?

The smile faded into a puzzled look. Or what passed for it. "_Parlez-vous Français?_"

"Uh, _pas beaucoup_," Norrington replied, shaking his head for emphasis, wincing at knowing that must have passed for a very rusty accent.

The creature understood, though. She bobbed her head once. "_Allez-vous me dire votre nom au moins?_"

He could feel Elizabeth's eyes on him. He wanted to look up, to see her reaction. At the same time, he dared not to break eye contact with the hatchling, to do nothing to upset it.

"Commodore James Norrington, of His Majesty's Royal Navy." Keep the introductions simple. The details would come later, he was sure.

The creature pondered the response, sounding out, "Roh... oy-ahl Navy?" with a doubtful hue. Her English, in sharp contrast, was halting and childlike. Instead of puzzling over it further, her neck twisted around on itself to look up at Elizabeth. "_Qui est elle?_"

Thankfully, Elizabeth interpreted the implied meaning of the query. "I'm Elizabeth Swann." She offered a small curtsy, smiling. "Pleased to meet you, _mademoiselle_."

The dragon gave another sharp-toothed grin and, by way of folding one of her forelimbs beneath her torso, bowed back.

Norrington felt panic rising like a slow, ominous tide. This was a problem, in more than one way. How was he going to explain the "stone's" disappearance? What was he going to do with the dragon? Tell it to hide? How were they to convey any orders at all when said dragon understood nothing except French?

Oblivious to his distress, the dragon appeared to be finished talking for the moment. She sat back on her haunches, looking between the two humans, blinking all the while.

"Perhaps you can ask her if there is anything wrong with her eyes, James," Elizabeth offered, bending down to look more closely into the dragon's face.

It was enough to interrupt Norrington's musings. "I'm afraid I'm not that learned in French, Miss Swann," he muttered without looking her way.

"Then who is?"

His mind rambled off the names automatically. "Gillette would be the first person I'd ask. Or Lane, but they're both - " Norrington stopped there, and again felt like sewing his mouth shut. What was wrong with him? How could he feel so inclined to answer her every little question? "No. They cannot be made aware of this."

"Why ever not?" Elizabeth held a hand out, to which the dragon nuzzled against. "I'm sure Nyx would love to meet someone who spoke her language."

"Nyx?" Norrington repeated, perplexed, glancing sidelong. "Who is - ?"

"You've studied the Greeks as I have. Don't you think it suits her?"

Now wasn't a time he would think appropriate for an impromptu naming session.

"It... does, but - "

"Then I don't see what you're getting so flustered over. Ask her if she would like it."

Norrington bit back a long-suffering sigh. "_Avez-vous un nom?_" he asked.

The sleek head turned to regard him. "_No._"

At least that word was universal.

"_Vous plaisent le nom Nyx_?"

The dragon was quiet, scrutinizing him with a thoughtful gaze. "_C'est un bon nom. Je va accepter il._"

The exchange seemed to end there. Nyx opened her mouth in another gaping yawn, muttered something unintelligible to her new friends, and ambled over to the hearth and promptly flopped down on the warm stones, fanning her wings to absorb the fire's heat.

Norrington stared at the sleeping mass of blue-black scales. He repeated the name in his head.

Nyx: the name for the latest bane of his existence.

It would be so easy to fetch a pistol from the armory...

Naturally, Elizabeth had something to say. "We should go try and find one of the lieutenants while she's resting."

Coming to his senses, Norrington adamantly denied that plan of action. "_We_ will not being saying _anything_ to _anyone_." He glanced at the clock (at a quarter past four) and, gently taking hold of his friend's arm, steered her toward the door. "_You_ will be on your way home in a short while, and then _I_ will come up with the most practical way to dispose of this... Nyx."

"Dispose of her?"

"Miss Swann, I'm of the impression that a dead dragon would be far more easy for my colleagues to accept than a live one."

Elizabeth was glaring at him now, half appalled, half stunned. "You aren't serious." She pulled her arm from his grasp.

"Well, what would you have me do, pray tell?" Norrington demanded, dropping his hands to his sides in exasperation. "Adopt it as a pet?"

"You can make sense of it, like you always have. You now see what the pirates saw so valuable about a simple rock."

"Exactly, and look at what they have intended. It wasn't a rock at all. It's turned out to be an animal that could grow into a fire-breathing menace that could sooner eat you or I than become our 'friend'."

"She could. She doesn't have to. Not if she's steered in the right direction."

"It must it be my burden, then."

"It doesn't have to be, James. You would have my help. And Will would offer his, if I explain to him - "

"I said it once already, Miss Swann. You are to tell _no one_."

A soft rapping at the door put an effective period to the end of his sentence. Caught up in their heated debate, both parties started.

"Yes, who's there?"

"Lieutenant Sanderson, sir."

The door eased open. Elizabeth quickly stepped in front of Nyx, the expanse of her dress shielding the dragon from view.

The rain-soaked lieutenant meekly entered, an oilskin overcoat draped over his uniform. He removed his dripping hat, looking appropriately sheepish. "Commodore Norrington, I hope you will forgive my intrusion, but I was told you wished to see me?" Then, as though he had just noticed who she was, he bowed. "Miss Swann, a pleasure to see you."

"Lieutenant," Elizabeth curtsied accordingly.

Grasping at the first sensible reaction, Norrington settled for feigning disapproval. He folded his hands behind his back. "By my watch, I sent for you almost two hours ago, Sanderson. I trust you have a decent explanation to excuse your late arrival."

"The roads are in a very sorry state, sir," the lieutenant replied earnestly, wringing his hands. "My family's home lies on the opposite side of Port Royal, and it was quite - "

Norrington waved a hand dismissively. "No matter. Apparently you have survived the trip, and that's that. We will continue this discussion later. If you would, please send for Lieutenant Gillette."

"Um, aye, sir." Sanderson saluted and left as quickly as he came.

The Commodore shut the door behind him, leaned against it, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

That had been close.

When he looked up again, he noticed Elizabeth was wearing a triumphant smirk.

Norrington frowned. "What?"

"It didn't take long for you to change your mind."

He felt a flare of indignation. "What I said still stands. The problem must be addressed. Until then, she is to be confined to a more appropriate setting. And for that, I need Gillette's help. It doesn't mean I will resolve to keep her in the long term," he added when the suspicious look failed to disappear.

"Mm-hm." Elizabeth left it at that, turning to gaze down at the slumbering beast. "What if she has plans of her own?"

"How do you mean?"

"Pleasant though she is, she's still a free entity. You don't have any way of keeping her under reign."

"What would you suggest, a leash?"

"For starters," Elizabeth replied, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "I'll come up with something."

Norrington turned away so she would not see him rolling his eyes. _Oh, this will be grand._

Gillette arrived several minutes later. For being someone with nothing to do prior to this, he appeared unjustifiably irate. The temper waned as he made his greetings to Elizabeth, and even more when taking note of the open crate upon the desk.

"Sir, permission to - "

"Drop the formalities for the moment, Andrew. I summoned you because there has been a change in the situation."

"Which situation is that?"

"Miss Swann?"

Without much dramatic flair, Elizabeth discreetly stepped away from the fireplace, revealing a still-dozing Nyx.

As Norrington expected, Gillette stared, struck dumb by the mere sight. Quiet fell, interrupted save for the continuing drizzle outside. Then he looked rightfully aghast. He tried to find his voice, but could muster nothing to say. He coughed awkwardly, backing up against the wall in his uncertainty. "That's... T-that's... It's a - " His hands worked to fill in the words where his mouth failed.

"A dragon, yes," Norrington finished tolerantly. "We've already deduced that."

"T-Taylor was..."

"Correct, oddly enough."

The lieutenant was now looking pointedly at the black talons and the wickedly curved horns. "Um, s-shouldn't we raise the alarm?"

"For what reason?" the Commodore asked rhetorically. "The only living things Nyx might endanger at this point are rodents and small chickens."

"Or not even that," Elizabeth added. "She's completely harmless, Lieutenant." She knelt by Nyx's side, and, by way of illustrating her point, nonchalantly trailed the back of her hand along the ridge of the dragon's neck.

_There's a matter to be disputed, my dear._ Norrington thought shrewdly. He had seen how sharp Nyx's teeth were. Such an animal wasn't of a herbivorous diet.

Gillette seemed to be getting some measure of composure back. He had stopped stuttering, anyway. "Then... why am I here?"

"Because she speaks French, and we need an interperator," Norrington explained with gruff frankness.

"Shouldn't we convene the other officers, then?" Gillette asked, recovering from this latest helping of shock.

"No," Norrington said firmly. "It'd be better for everyone if they weren't made aware of this development yet. Not to mention it'd be a much harder subject to keep them quiet about. Only you, I, and Miss Swann are to know of this."

"Until?"

"Until further notice."

It took some coaxing on Elizabeth's part to persuade Gillette to approach. He crouched by her side, albeit slightly further back, unsure. Eventually, through much encouragement, his fingers reached out and lightly brushed the leathery skin of one wing.

It came as a surprise to all when the dragonet's head suddenly jerked up and around to glare daggers at Gillette.

The lieutenant flinched, pulling his hand back as if he had touched fire. "Oh! N-nice dragon," he uttered quickly, before the knowledge to speak_ Français_ kicked in. "Er, um, _excusez-moi, madam. Je ne voulais pas vous surprendre._"

Sleepy curiosity overcame the malice. "_Qui êtes-vous?_" She yawned with an indifferent air. "_Êtes-vous un ami?_"

Gillette swallowed hard. "_Oui, de la Commodore et Mademoiselle Swann._"

Nyx narrowed her white eyes, glancing toward _la Commodore_ in tandem with Gillette. "_Faites-vous confiance en lui?_"

"Explain to her that you're a lieutenant, you're here as an aide, and can be trusted."

Gillette conveyed as much, introducing himself with practiced ease. Nyx's eyes widened knowingly. "Ah, _traducteur. Je vois._" Without further delay she butted her head against Gillette's hand, purring affectionately and earning a cautious smile from the older man.

Confident that his lieutenant and the dragon had sealed their new friendship, Norrington busied himself with cleaning off his desk. The translucent slime had stained a few sheets of parchment; they would need revising. It was an easy process of sweeping bits of eggshell of the edges and depositing them back into the crate. He paused to regard the empty halves of shell, nestled in the straw, before placing the lid over the sight.

He stole a look over his shoulder, raising a bemused eyebrow as the dragonet alternated between chattering to Gillette, cooing pleasantly to the stroking of Elizabeth's hands, and preening the spines of her wings. It was an odd little scene, to be sure, yet there was already something minutely... normal about it.

Taylor had pulled the least likely scenario out of the air, and it had come around to be correct.

So absurd that maybe it just seemed normal given recent events.

_Fate's got a funny way of throwing things back in your face when you least expect it._

"Such is life," Norrington muttered under his breath, gathering up the crate and returning it to his quarters, still trying to assure himself that this was the right course of action to take.

**TBC**

**Notes:** By this point you're probably thinking while the setting may be in the Caribbean, this story will have nothing to do with any canon pirates.

Think again. There will be pirating action later on in the plot. Unlike my other projects, Jack Sparrow has got a significant role in this one.

Accented characters are fun... to a great degree. I've never made so many visits to Google's translation generator. Apologies in advance if the French isn't all 100 percent correct. Readers might want to brush up on their understandings of the most fundamental words, or they could plug the phrases back in and get the English equivalents.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 1/8/08


	5. Middle Ground

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** This chapter's title stems from a line in _Reign Of Fire_. It's not the best movie in the word, but the dragons, or wyverns as some prefer, are awesome.

I've included translations simply because there's a lot of dialogue.

-----

_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

-----

_Chapter Five - Middle Ground_

It took some time for Norrington to convince Elizabeth he wasn't going to actually shoot Nyx in the back. That had been nothing but an excited utterance, he claimed, and wasn't to be taken seriously. Zealous in her newfound quest to make sure the dragon did not come to harm, the governor's daughter countered every remark with a strict command. Norrington wasn't permitted to do this or that, he was to act with total regard for Nyx's safety at all times, he wasn't to go against his word that the dragonet would be permitted to get into trouble, among other things.

With that said and done, Elizabeth finally took her leave, but not without announcing her intention to return in a few days.

"I must say, I admire the tenacity of her attitude, Commodore," Gillette proclaimed once she had gone. He stood watch over Nyx, who remained dozing peacefully on the hearth. "Were your threats that terrible?"

"They were strongly worded at best," Norrington confessed, turning to face the balcony windows. Beyond them, the storm had finally died down. Though a gentle rain continued to fall, and the harbor itself was in a choppy state, the more violent stages were finally over with. Fortunate timing, or else he would not have been comfortable with sending Elizabeth on her way. "I was quite taken aback by this turn of events, as you can be sure, and to be perfectly honest, I still don't like how it is all panning out."

"How so?" The lieutenant tilted his head, following his friend's line of sight to Nyx, who was still in a deep state of repose. "Don't you have a plan?"

"Somewhat. It does not cover every aspect to the dilemma. I'm trusting Miss Swann to fabricate a means of remedying the voids."

"You _trust_ her?" Gillette repeated. "So soon after she has done what she did?"

"We aim to reestablish our prior friendship, Lieutenant, and nothing more." Norrington returned to his desk without meeting the other's eyes. He knew the reminders would not end there, but there was no time like the present to begin refuting them. "It is really none of your concern, so to speak."

Gillette took the hint, acquiescing to the fact the Commodore was in charge once again, nodding apologetically as he sat down in the seat Elizabeth had vacated. "All right. Back to business, then: how are we to go about with the investigation into the _Seraphine_'s accomplice?"

"As if nothing has changed. Unless Darrow or some other party explicitly references the crate, we will refrain from its mentioning."

"But... this knowledge now could be used to our advantage, sir. The pirates refused to divulge its contents to us before. If they knew, perhaps they will try to use that position against us: that they knew of the creature and can now petition that they know of the proper methods with which to deal with it."

"That makes it our problem and not theirs. Denial is all we will offer in response to such a bargain. We don't make deals in which the greater benefit goes to the accused. Granted, that's all speculation. Who's to say it is what they even planned?"

Failing to think of more to say, Gillette shrugged, watching his associate begin to draft new copies of the ruined documents. "It's the only theory I would think semi-plausible."

_Like the theories of what Nyx's egg was?_ "It has its grain of logic. For now, though, a state of assumed incomprehension will serve us well enough."

_Will it, now?_ Norrington's conscience mused over this question at length. Was it really better to keep this whole thing under wraps? It would spare the parties involved undue stress. He wouldn't be held to keeping Nyx hidden, or to devise covert ways of caring for the beast. Gillette wouldn't have to be pressured to keep his mouth shut. Elizabeth wouldn't have any objections to lifting the veil of secrecy.

There was always the possibility of the dragon being received in the negative. That was what troubled him. In an indirect way, he worried for Nyx's welfare for the sake of Elizabeth. He had seen how quickly she had taken to the creature's charms, and vice versa. The friendship showed no signs of ending with this one encounter. If there was even a chance of Nyx coming to harm, he would strive to keep her identity hidden, out of compassion for a friend.

Besides, who was to say it would be such a horrible sacrifice of his time and energy? He was skeptical, yes, and who wouldn't be? This was an unprecedented undertaking so far as he knew. There were no previous cases to draw insight from, and certainly no books to consult on the subject. That didn't bother him so much as the other factors.

If Nyx was anything like another animal she would only need nourishment and rest in order to thrive.

How hard could it be?

-----

It began later that evening.

A funny sensation at his hand pulled Norrington's mind out of the dark abyss of sleep. He was content to lay there, unmoving, waiting for his foggy senses to clear, puzzling over what it could be at their leisure. The sudden pain at his fingertips elicited an involuntary yelp, and he quickly pulled his arm in. Blinking the haze from his eyes, he looked first at the indentations on his index and middle fingers.

The skin hadn't been broken.

Then he looked up at the reptilian face, with its jaw resting on the edge of the cot, no more than six inches away from him.

"_Bonsoir. Avez-vous quelque chose à manger?_"

Gillette hadn't been wrong about her having simple needs. The ability to speak was evidently nothing. The dragonet was very much a baby in her thought processes.

Norrington blinked, narrowing his eyes against the white, luminescent glare of Nyx's. It was unnerving, the way they shone as if lit from within. "Beg pardon?" he whispered.

"_Avez-vous des produits alimentaires?_" Her voice had an imploring tone.

No translation was needed, though he caught the word _food_ somewhere in there.

Norrington held the offended left hand up. "_Un moment_." Painstakingly, he sat up, leaning against the wall behind him, taking the time to regain his wits.

At a little over two hours that nap hadn't been long enough. He had returned home earlier in the afternoon, to clean up and put on a fresh uniform. And to gather several items he thought might prove useful. Of those things, he reasoned some uncooked pork and chicken wouldn't be a bad thing to let the dragon snack on.

Mulling over this, he didn't notice how said dragonet had crawled onto the cot, almost into his lap, until he felt her sharp talons upon his leg.

Nyx, for her part, didn't seem to notice. "_Êtes-vous bien?_" _Are you well?_

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," Norrington muttered, hastily pushing her away. Belatedly, he noted what substance his hands met with. The skin was supple and warm. The scales weren't callus and set, like he had thought they looked.

Nyx stared in bewilderment, half-standing at the cot's foot. "_Vous sûr?_" _You sure?_

"Quite." Norrington stood, stoking the nearby lantern that sat upon the wardrobe. He duly noted how Nyx shrank away from the light. He had fallen asleep mostly dressed, needing only to don his jacket and cravat, foregoing the wig, hat, and sword for the moment. Tying the neckcloth, he asked, "How long have you been awake?"

"_Pas longtemps._" _Not long._

The language barrier wasn't so much at issue. She appeared to be his counterpart, able to understand but not to reply in English. As long as they spoke simply, it would work.

"Well, I've brought some samples of meat for you to taste," Norrington fished through the satchel beside the lantern. He found them, untouched, wrapped in light cloth. "Not knowing what it is you... your kind eat, I thought it best to see what your preference is."

"_Qu'est-ce que vous avez?_" _What do you have?_

Nyx came to his side as he sat at the cot's edge, thankful that she kept her claws to herself this time. He unwrapped each parcel for her to see. "Raw pork and chicken, somewhat aged, but unsalted," Norrington explained, holding one then the other out for her to sniff. "After you choose one, we'll be able to arrange you a proper diet."

Following a careful nibble she instantly appeared to lose interest in whatever he had to say. Her narrow mouth darted out to snatch one morsel, which she chewed noisily and without finesse, and without pause she snatched up the pork. Norrington couldn't help staring, mildly appalled at the savagery of how she fed, before it registered that she couldn't have hatched knowing many table manners.

"_J'aime les deux_," Nyx proclaimed, swallowing. Both were equally appetizing. She sniffed the cloths as if there were more food to be found there. "_Est que tous les?_" _Is that all?_

"For now," Norrington lectured, pocketing the empty rags. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait for a larger meal."

Her head and wings drooped in disappointment. "_Mais j'ai faim maintenant,_" Nyx whined, regarding him with big, sad eyes. _But I'm hungry now._

Norrington frowned at the display, unaffected. He had expected this reaction. She would have to learn to accept some setbacks with her diet regimen. This whole plan would depend on how the dragonet was conditioned to things like patience and endurance. If she was smart enough to talk, she must be intelligent enough to appreciate discipline.

He folded his arms. "Nyx, for the time being, you will have to undergo a few hardships. I cannot just leave, butcher a chicken, and bring it back without drawing attention to myself."

She cocked her head. _Why not?_

"Because it would be too incriminating. You're supposed to stay in hiding. I cannot easily keep you a secret if my men see me returning to my office with slaughtered animals every night."

The wings mantled, but she appeared to understand. Glancing toward the window, she shifted from one side to the other. "_Puis-je aller voler?_"

_Voler?_ Norrington repeated the word under his breath, searching for its equivalent. "Flying?" he asked. "You already know how to fly?"

"_Oui._" She regarded him curiously. "_Puis je aller?_" _Can I go?_

"Absolutely not. You could be seen."

"_Je ne voudrais pas,_" Nyx asserted, shaking her head. _I would not._ "_Pourquoi est-ce si grave? Tu m'as vu._"_ Why is it so serious? You have seen me._

"_C'est différent,_" Norrington replied, switching gears, thinking a lecture in her native language would have a greater resonance. Between her and Gillette's pointers, the lost lingo was coming back to him. "_D'autres pourraient vous blesser._" _Others might hurt you._

"_Pourquoi?_" _Why?_

Norrington stopped there, unsure of what to let slip. Didn't she know that dragons were considered mythical, evil beings, to be feared and not befriended?

"_Dragons ne sont pas... bienvenue dans_ _Port Royal_." _Dragons are not welcome to Port Royal._

"_Pourquoi?_"

Norrington cursed her shortsightedness, opting for frankness in his replies. "_Les gens d'ici n'aiment pas les dragons._" _The people here do not like dragons._

She looked stunted, mouth slightly agape. "_Mais... vous et Mlle Swann et Lieutenant Gillette - _"

"We are the exception to the rule, Nyx," the Commodore cut her off there, unable to repress his pity. "You may not realize it, but you haven't been born into a very accepting society."

It must be a lot, he thought, to have come into the world only to be told in the same day that you didn't belong in it. Norrington knew of no animal capable of experiencing it. From the way she glanced toward the floor, it was clear she appreciated the words for what they meant. He felt a surge of guilt, not intending for this blunt truth to have crushed her spirit.

"We don't want to see you come to harm, do you understand? You've done nothing wrong; we know that. It doesn't mean everyone else sees you in the same sense, though."

Nyx shrunk away, wrapping her tail around herself, looking dejected and not meeting his gaze. "_Ils vont jamais me voir, puis._" _They will never see me, then._

"When the timing is right, and your safety can be guaranteed, they might," Norrington explained gently. "Until then, you'll have to stay in hiding. We'll come up with ways for you to venture outside. I promise."

Promise. The word felt alien to his tongue. He was accustomed to making wordless pacts with others and to himself, for he was not one to verbalize such accords. He couldn't remember the last time he had spoken it aloud to another person.

Nyx was in need of reassurance though. This exception proved worth it when she met his eyes. Her head snaked its way under his arm, her shoulder leaning against his side, burrowing her face into the fabric of his jacket. The Commodore tensed at the sudden movement, only relaxing when she did not do anything more. Despite these misgivings, he guardedly moved his right hand to stroke one of the folded wings.

"_Merci, James._"

Before the nap, he had processed as much paperwork as possible. That left some documents still to be read, which was how Norrington spent the next hour. Nyx's initiation into the art of waiting went well enough. She was content to sprawl behind the desk, her tail loosely wrapped about the legs of his chair, biding her time. She heaved an occasional sigh, moving only to scratch and preen.

The clock struck eleven when she placed her fore claws on the desk, peeking her head over his forearm, earning a glance from its owner. "_Qu'est-ce que tu fais?_" She motioned to the parchment in his hands. _What are you doing?_

"Oh, um, just reading off the names of a crew," Norrington replied. He was still on the fence about telling Nyx about the pirates. She spoke French. Maybe that was attributable to where she was found. The people around her had spoken it, and at a point she could have come to hear it through the shell. What if she remembered details like the _Seraphine_'s name?

To his relief, her query wasn't about that. "R... reed-ing?" she pronounced, frowning with concentration.

"Nothing here would interest you, but it's a pastime, a hobby, some people take up, like sketching or woodcarving."

"_Comment ne ça travail?_" _How does it work?_

Norrington smirked, amused by her inquisitiveness. "Well, it's a skill. First one must learn the concept of letters, as in the alphabet."

"_Alphabet_," Nyx repeated. She stared at the lines of names, finally shaking her head in frustration. "_Non, cette's faux._" _No, that's wrong._

"That is because it's English. The alphabets are different with every language. Reading involves recognizing the visual words that the letters make."

"_Comme prenant la parole sur une page._" The dragonet rested her head on the inside of his elbow, still gazing intently at the parchment. _As speaking on a page._

"Something like that."

"_Quelles sont ces marques?_" _What are those marks?_

There were negative lines bordering several of the names. Norrington had assumed them to indicate those of pirates already spoken to, who hadn't given up their comrades' descriptions. He explained as much to Nyx, excluding the mention of what the prisoners had been asked about.

As he was getting the answer out, the door across the room burst open, and a uniformed figure raced in.

With a subdued chirp, Nyx ducked, whereas Norrington stood, more out of alarm than outrage. "Now, see here, Sergeant, what is the meaning of this?" He kept his gaze forward, even as the dragonet scrambled to cover beneath the desk.

Lyle Brigance, his advance halted by the bark of command, stood fast, working to catch his breath as he made a meek salute. "My apologies for the entrance, Commodore, but there's been a sighting."

"A sighting?" Norrington repeated, at a loss for what that meant.

"Of a pirate ship, sir. I'll explain on the way. Please, we've not a moment to spare."

Brigance turned away. Reaching for his tricorne, Norrington glanced pointedly at the white eyes under the desk, conveying, what-he-hoped passed for, _stay_ to Nyx, and followed the redcoat out.

As promised, he got the explanation. A sentry posted at the western wall had subtly reported the matter to the nearest officer: Theodore Groves. To avoid spooking the ship, the lieutenant had sent a courier, Brigance, to pass the word and had abstained from raising the alarm.

Several turns and two stairwells later, they emerged into the humid night air. The sky was clear, without a cloud to be seen. The gun crews were already assembled, crouched low, clustered about their respective guns. In the moonlight, tucked away with her sails drawn up, Norrington could barely make out the prow of a ship, jutting out from behind the wall of jungle.

Groves trotted over from his position at the fort's corner. "Sir." His voice was hushed, as if he was afraid of being overheard.

Norrington returned the salute. "Lieutenant, what do you make of this?"

"She hasn't stirred in the last ten minutes," Groves relayed. "There's no sign of any great activity. We don't think she knows she's been discovered."

"Or she has a lax watch on duty," Norrington offered, accepting the spyglass that was handed to him. "Have you seen any lookouts?"

"None, sir."

The contours of Port Royal's greater harbor opened to the south and to the west. An attack from the east was far less likely. Ships weren't known to drop anchor there by the headland. If these were pirates, they wouldn't be the first ones to scout their target from there. There would be no point in firing upon her. From where the vessel sat, she was half-sheltered, impossible to hit at this distance. She could run at a moment's notice, and Norrington was content to observe for as long as she would let him.

The coloration of her hull was light, visible even in the shadows, standing out in stark contrast against the darker ocean. Her figurehead was simple, a rounded, inelegant spar that curved upwards under the bowsprit, resembling an eagle's beak. He could discern one gun port above a second, testifying to her identity as having two gundecks. Beyond that, there wasn't much else to see.

Without lowering the spyglass, Norrington asked, "How long could she have evaded detection?"

"Since after sundown, if she had the good fortune to drop anchor at the same time the guards changed shift."

Norrington glanced to his left, at the row of guns and their attendants. Every last one of them stood wide awake, ready to spring to action. They could be expected to stand at the ready for the rest of the night if need be. It would give them something to gripe about come morning, but at the moment, the Commodore felt inclined to sacrifice their bedtime hours for the protection of the colony. If it proved too much, they could be rotated with crews from the southern and eastern walls.

Better to be safe than sorry.

"Keep an eye on her," Norrington said tersely, returning the telescope to Groves. "I don't think she'll be trying her luck tonight. In the event that she does, fire a warning shot, and see where it goes from there."

He left them with those instructions, making the return trip to his office in record time. The sight of the door hanging wide open slowed him down. With growing dismay, he searched both rooms, looking in the few places Nyx could have hidden: below the desk, under the cot.

No dragon to be found.

**TBC**

**Notes:** He was hoping for too much, thinking Nyx would just stay put like a good little girl. All of this was pretty much a prelude to where the more complex story kicks in.

Yes. I've finally gotten around to uploading something. Don't bite me for it.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 1/11/08


	6. Terms Of Agreement

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** Subscription alerts are as good as reviews. For me, it means someone's actually interested in reading the story. Thanks to Rokhal and The Sea Breeze.

-----

_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

-----

_Chapter Six - Terms Of Agreement_

He searched once, and then a second time, to assure himself this wasn't some happy coincidence, convenient in its getting him off the hook. Nyx couldn't disappear as mystically as she had come into existence. She had to have left under her own mortal doing.

But acknowledging that didn't change the fact she was very much gone.

_All right, all right. Just stay calm, and think. If you were her where would you go?_

Like so many other things about her, Norrington hadn't a clue as to where the dragonet might have wandered off to. She had more reasons than one to want to leave the office. Did she think she could find her own food somewhere within the fort? Had she thought it would really go unnoticed if she tried? Was it because of what he had said?

_Did, had, was_. Norrington swallowed a groan of frustration, forcing the questions out. Forget whatever her motives were. There would be plenty of time to figure that out later.

It wouldn't look too out of place. A walk around the perimeter of Fort Charles wasn't below him. Every single night wasn't wrought with paperwork and officers meetings, forcing him to stay cooped up in the office. At most, he would have to contend with a few polite queries as to what he was doing, wandering around at that hour.

Sticking his head in every open door he happened to pass, asking whomever he saw if they had seen a nocturnal, dog-sized, snake-tongued, bat-winged lizard, coming across as preoccupied and frantic - _that_ would look out of place.

To start, he retraced his steps, retracking the route Brigance had led him down. Maybe she had followed them out to the west wall. With this in mind, Norrington searched, making a point to check every dark corner he passed. Nyx, in hindsight, had had a point when she claimed she had a chance of not being seen. Elizabeth had been clever to christen her after the Greek goddess of night. The dragonet's dark blue hide was near impossible to see in a pitch-black background. Someone could walk right by her and not have the slightest inkling she was there.

Unless her eyes were open. The two bright white orbs were hard to miss in total darkness, and unnatural in contrast to the burning torches lining the walls. A curious guard could, all too easily, hold up a light and expose her, hiding in plain sight. Did she have enough sense to know this?

_She's a _baby_, you dolt. Speaking French or not, she doesn't have the common sense to know the guards are told to draw their weapons first, and ask questions later._

This only fueled the worried queries that plagued his thoughts. What would he say if she was discovered? How would he rationalize it? What if he came upon the scene too late, only to find her corpse surrounded by horrified redcoats, musket smoke still lingering?

"Damn you, Nyx," the Commodore growled to the empty air around him. He glanced back over his shoulder, giving the empty corridor one last look while taking the turn into the next.

It came as a surprise when he collided with another body, sending the shorter man sprawling to the stone floor.

Norrington recoiled half a step, dilatorily taking in the man's uniform before peering down at his face.

"Oh, Lieutenant. My apologies. I didn't see you coming."

Joshua Taylor sat up, accepting the offered hand and allowing himself to be pulled back to his feet. "No worries about that, Commodore. I should have watched where I was going." He smiled good naturedly, dusting his jacket sleeves of imaginary dust. "Out for a little excursion?"

"You might say that," Norrington said, awkwardly settling into casual conversation. "What are you doing?"

"Ah," Taylor replied absentmindedly, waving a bundled packet, bound with twine. "Outgoing post has been running a little slow as of late. The runners have taken up with that bug that's been going around, so I'm acting in their stead." He pocketed said letters. "Is something wrong?"

"That depends on who you're speaking to. Are you aware of the situation at the west wall?"

Taylor shrugged. "Yes, and every other man on watch knows, sir. You'd think they would be more inclined to think it some cheap merchant captain who doesn't want to pay a berthing fee than a scouting contingent of pirates."

"You would, wouldn't you?" Norrington muttered, more to his own ears. Underneath the mildly disinterested pretense, his mind was racing. Would now be a good time to bite the bullet, tell Taylor that his hypothesis had been proven true? The spry lieutenant had behaved somewhat reservedly at the time. What did that signify?

Had he known?

"Recall the _Echelon_'s crate, Lieutenant."

"Very well."

"What would you say if I were to tell you your deduction as to its contents turned out to be correct?"

The silence that ensued could be read as anything but shocked.

"The first thing I'd ask would be 'have you been getting enough sleep, sir?'" Taylor countered with a playful grin.

Norrington said nothing, letting his unamused frown do the talking.

Taylor's grin slowly faded, along with the humored look. "Oh, so... You're... you're saying it - " He trailed off in his uncertainty.

"It did. It hatched."

"W-what was it, then?"

"A dragon; so you are now one of the very few people who know about her," Norrington declared flatly, glancing around to be sure of the privacy of this discussion. "As of this time, she is missing. I do not think she has left the fort, but I'd appreciate a second set of eyes keeping a lookout."

"Yes, sir," Taylor saluted, looked ready to be off, stopped. "Uh, w-what if I should come across... her?"

"How's your French?"

Taylor paused a second time, stumped by the bluntness of the question. "Good enough."

"Explain that I sent you, and see if you can't persuade her to go back to my office. If not, just get her hidden somewhere and send for me."

Taylor hurried away. Norrington watched him depart, already wondering if it had been wrong to tell the lieutenant, before he snapped back to reality and strode off in the opposite direction. Standing there second-guessing his actions wouldn't get Nyx found any quicker.

The next few hours saw more of the same: nothing. The Commodore searched in an ever-fastidious manner, detouring through every hollow passageway and inspecting every empty room the dragonet might have had access to. Doubling back and re-checking particularly dark alcoves seemed a necessary tactic. He crossed paths with Taylor on another occasion; the lieutenant had not seen hide nor scale of the creature.

Norrington was beginning to think, and hope the vague, unlikely hope, that Nyx had returned to the office. There wasn't any other place she could be. When his latest search pattern took him by the stairway that led down into the jail cells, he stopped short. Figuring he had nothing to lose by checking, he descended the steps.

The fact that there was the absence of an armed guard at the open, and normally closed, door warranted such an inspection.

In addition to the Seraphinians, there were the usual number of criminals to take note of, almost all of them the usual lower crust of Port Royal society. Those guilty of more petty offenses were grouped together in a single unit. Most were sprawled upon the floor, or curled up against the walls. Norrington stepped lightly, giving the bars a wide berth, figuring most of them to be asleep. The prison dog, with keys in mouth, lay upon its side under the nearby bench, and didn't stir as the visitor crept by, moving down the stairs to the lower cells.

The pirates were in much the same state as their fellow detainees. As he drew closer, Norrington could see the two that weren't at rest, sitting watch over those who were. He heard the muted whispers between them. These ceased abruptly upon the military man's entrance, and both Frenchmen favored him with sullen glares.

Norrington wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was not any happier to see them, or to be downwind of their collective stench of sweat, grime, and salt.

"_Bonsoir, oh grand Commodore._" One rose from his seat, approaching the bars to lean against them. Like most of his friends, he was dressed simply, in a ragged shirt and brown trousers. Long, greasy dreadlocks framed his gaunt features. A distinctive scar bisected his chapped lips. His air exuded bored disinterest as he bent low in a mock bow. "_Ce qui vous amène ici?_" _What brings you here?_

"A routine examination, sir," Norrington returned the answer briskly and without concern that the Frenchman understood or not. The dismissive quality of his words would get the point across.

He had already turned away and was halfway up the stairs when the accented syllables reached his ears.

"Do you not have lieutenants to cater to that task?"

Norrington raised an eyebrow, glancing back. "I beg your pardon?"

The man was smirking.

"Well, surely you must. Else why would you have come at such a time, unless you had an ulterior motive?"

"You sound as though you already know."

The pirate shrugged. "It is simple _sens commun_, Commodore. Common sense tells us you have more than one underling employed to do your bidding."

Norrington bristled, though he refused to take the bait. He had heard countless such insults in his time. "You're rather insightful. Tell me: what bidding should they be attending to that involves a visit down here?"

"The Fleur-de-Nuit," the Frenchman replied, as though it were obvious. "She has hatched by now, has she not?"

Norrington stared. His shock wasn't so much for how the prisoner knew about the dragon but the name of her apparent breed. "The Fleur-de-Nuit?"

_Flower of the Night?_

"The dragon, she is a Fleur-de-Nuit. Do not insult my intelligence by acting surprised. I know: you have come here searching for her, having failed to find her anywhere else, yes?"

There would be no point in denying it. The shock had betrayed any chance of that.

"She came this way?"

The Frenchman scoffed. "Not to my knowledge. I only assumed it to be the cause for that awful squealing we have been subjected to endure for the last hour. She must be quite the _chasseur_, being able to catch so many rodents."

The passage along the cells eventually dead-ended, tapering off into a few, seldom visited storage areas. Norrington strained to see into the dark, calling, "Nyx?"

An answering chirp, almost birdlike in pitch, sounded from further down the corridor, echoing off the walls, accompanied by the soft clicking of talons against the floor. Then one of the shadows separated from the rest. She came trotting over, smiling, as if she had done nothing wrong, bobbing her head in greeting.

Norrington gave a small sigh, mingled with exasperation and relief. "Have you been here all this time?" he asked, kneeling down before her.

"_Oui_. _Trouver de la nourriture_." She sat back to wipe at her muzzle with a forepaw. In addition to the dragon's own musky smell, the faint coppery tang of blood was prominent in the air. "_Les rats sont très savoureux._"

The Frenchman chuckled under his breath, earning sharp looks from both Commodore and dragon. "I am sure they are. Had Fate been kinder to us and to you, _mlle_, you would not be forced to survive on such meager rations."

Norrington tensed. He hadn't an inkling of what the man was getting at. However, he had the distinct feeling he didn't want Nyx to hear what that was. Straightening up, he beckoned, "Nyx, come. We must get you back to the office."

To his relief, she looked equally uncertain of the pirate's particular demeanor toward her. The dragonet quickly sidled away from the bars, and followed Norrington's lead up the stairs, out of the cellblock. Norrington stopped only to turn and shut the door behind them.

"Have you eaten enough for tonight?" he half-whispered over their hurried footsteps.

"_Oui, assez bien._" With her wings folded against her sides, Nyx slinked along the floor after him. She blended into the darkness with surprising ease. It was no wonder the guards hadn't seen her. They weren't trained to look for intruders shorter than their waists, creeping around at floor level.

"Why did you leave?" Norrington asked, slowing as they turned a corner. "I said you would be fed later on."

"_Je voulais voir si je pouvais trouver de la nourriture pour moi-même._" _I wanted to see if I could find food for myself._

They came upon the office. Stepping into the torchlight, Nyx shed her cover, darting through the door as Norrington opened it. "You need not have done that, Nyx. You can trust my word. When I said you would be fed I meant it. It would have taken me little time to secure some rations for your meal. Do you understand?"

"_Je supposer._" _I suppose. _She scampered across the room, springing up onto the edge of the desk, as daintily as a cat. The gusts that rolled off her wings sent several sheets of parchment flying. "_Êtes-vous en colère contre moi?_" _Are you angry with me?_

Norrington shut the door behind him, turning its lock to prevent any more unanticipated entrances. He paused to consider a proper answer. "I was worried, and a little disappointed that you disobeyed me," he admitted, stooping to collect the scattered documents. "Truthfully, I'm more relieved to see that you weren't hurt or discovered."

"_Vraiment?_"

He glanced up, frowning at what he saw. "Yes, really. Now, get that foot out of your mouth."

Nyx hastily withdrew the talon she had been chewing on, planting all four feet firmly on the desk as the Commodore dropped into his seat.

"Seeing that I didn't make myself clear the first time, I'm going to tell you exactly what's what. Nyx: you are not to leave this office, day or night, unless I explicitly permit you to. You will be provided with food and opportunities to venture outdoors accordingly, but you will have to accept the fact I cannot adhere to your every whim. This will not be a permanent arrangement, but until we come up with something more ideal, you are to honor those terms."

Listening with rapt attention, Nyx hadn't broken eye contact, save for blinking once.

"Was that clear?"

"_Oui, monsieur. Je ne vais pas laisser._" _I won't leave._

Norrington looked her directly in the face, scanning for any hint to suggest she had not meant it. Finding none, he nodded in return. "Very well. That'll do."

He leaned back into his seat, watching Nyx set to work preening the folds of one wing.

What the pirate had said was still haunting his thoughts. It confirmed Gillette's assumptions: the Seraphinians had known what was in the crate all along. Nyx's visit to the cells had confirmed it for them. Considering they now knew he knew about her, the practice of keeping her existence hidden was compromised. They could use this knowledge in the next round of interrogations.

How was it possible that all these preconceived theories were panning out to be true?

Norrington pressed his fingertips to his brow, a vain attempt to forestall the developing headache, letting his eyes fall halfway shut. "All that business aside," he explained, inclined to discuss a topic less portentous. "In the time you decided to take your little stroll, I felt obligated to divulge your identity to another one of the officers."

The preening ceased. "_Oh, qui?_"

"Taylor, my third lieutenant; I enlisted his help while searching for you. It would be sensible to introduce him to you." The latter was muttered, more the thinking-out-loud type.

"_Allez-vous?_" Nyx's spade-tipped tail whipped out, threatening to disperse another pile of documents. Her wings mantled in anticipation. _Will you?_

Noticing this, Norrington let the raised hand drop to the armrest. "Yes. Momentarily." Rising to his feet, he retrieved the satchel from his quarters, emptying its remaining contents onto the desk. "Before I do, I'm going to take some base measurements."

"_Mesures?_" She pawed curiously at the empty sheets of the opened journal.

The short length of rope, originally intended as a lead, would make a convenient measuring cord. It had occurred to Norrington that collecting some data now would prove useful later on. Monitoring the dragonet's growth in the early stages could lead to a better understanding of how fast she might grow.

To his relief, Nyx did not shy away from the end that was pressed to her snout, and strung over her head, down along the neck. Only her eyes moved, to follow the procedure. "_Ce que tu fais?_" _What are you doing?_

"Hold still," Norrington replied brusquely. He repeated this process several times, taking notes of each: from head to rear haunches, shoulder to elbow to wrist, along the leading edge of one wing. In increments of feet, he approximated the dragonet to be two feet long, with a greater wingspan nearly twice that.

The Commodore frowned, reviewing the numbers. Somehow, looking back on the day's events, it seemed like an incorrect estimation. That was larger than a small dog, from a creature that had hatched from a coconut-sized egg only a few hours ago. How fast did these... Fleur-de-Nuits grow?

She did appear bigger, or maybe his tired eyes were simply playing tricks on him.

The dragonet in question hopped down from the desk, and watched as Norrington packed his tools away. "_Tout est fait?_" _All done?_

"Yes, Nyx. Thank you for your patience." She trotted after him as he nonchalantly tossed the satchel back onto the cot. "We'll have to repeat this procedure every other night or so. Does that sit well with you?"

She rotated her head and hunched her shoulders in a very human-like shrug by way of answer. "_Puis-je rencontrer le Lieutenant Taylor maintenant?_"

Norrington smiled tolerantly. "Right. I'll send for him. Wait here."

Recruiting a passing guard and issuing the order took little time. No sooner than he had done that did a new noise draw his attention.

He turned back to see Nyx scratching anxiously at the windows to the balcony, her concentration fixed on the world outside.

Norrington frowned. _One bloody thing after the other._ Yielding to the plea, he pulled the doors open.

The terrace was arranged to match the office: simple, with a pair of day seats the only regular tenants. It overlooked the dirt road leading up to the fort's entrance. Jungle vegetation had reclaimed the ground directly below, and could be traced back to the southwest corner of the fort. Thick vines had crept their way up the wall, breaching the overhang's edge. Nyx bit at them experimentally as she clambered up onto the concrete railing.

Resting against the doorframe, Norrington took a moment to appreciate the sight before them. From this elevated place one had a picturesque view of the harbor, spread out under a starry sky. The _Echelon_ rode at anchor by the Navy pier, as did the _Dauntless_, further away against the majestic rise of the headland.

Nyx crept along the railing, staring out over Port Royal in unrestrained wonder with her mouth slightly agape. The working districts and the market lay between the middle class neighborhoods and the marina. Extending up onto the rise were the more exquisite manors, their large windows glowing against the darkened land. "_Très beau._"

_Very beautiful_. Norrington smirked, marveling at her choice of words. Thinking about it, Port Royal was a splendid colony over most in this region; it had its own charms. He was never one to think it an exceptionally pretty settlement, though. That was Kingston's claim to fame.

The smirk vanished at hearing another new sound: the restive flutter of Nyx's wings. To her credit, the dragonet reined her enthusiasm in when she noticed him staring at her. "_Quand puis-je voler?_"

_When can I fly?_

Norrington looked away from her petitioning eyes, and thought. If the guards had failed to see her with only a few feet of shade between them, surely a wayward civilian wouldn't pay her any attention at this time of night. If they should, what could be made of it? The impending meeting Taylor would serve as a good incentive; she wouldn't be keen to go anywhere.

Was it really that great a risk?

"Will you stay within sight of the fort?"

She nodded animatedly, "_Oui, James. Je ne vais pas errer._" _I will not roam._

"Then you may go. Do not stay out too long."

"_Je ne vais pas._" Nyx trotted to the balcony's outer edge, where she crouched low, coiling her legs as she stretched her wings wide. Fully spread, the gray spots stood out against the blue membranes, rippling with tension. They flapped one, twice experimentally, testing the air as much as their own strength.

At the last moment, she grinned back at him. "_De promettre._"

_Promise._

**TBC**

**Notes:** They've reached an understanding, for now. Expect the plot to become more complicated with the next few chapters.

More connections to _Temeraire_ are to come. The mention of Fleur-de-Nuit is the prequel to those details.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 1/14/08


	7. Foul Fowl

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** This chapter's title was inspired by a quote from Mike Rowe, host of the Discovery Channel's _Dirty Jobs_.

-----

_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

-----

_Chapter Seven - Foul Fowl_

"Oi! I said no biting."

Nyx drew her head back at once, neck curling into a tight S shape, with a feeble expression of alarm. Her affinity for affectionate nibbling was unfortunate for Taylor. This wasn't the first rebuke he had delivered for receiving an inadvertent nip. In truth, he didn't appear to mind, though. Since their introduction, the lieutenant had scarcely left her alone. He brought it on himself.

Norrington stifled another urge to yawn, thoroughly unsurprised. The skies to the east were growing steadily lighter. He looked away from watching them long enough to draw a hand over his face, blinking wearily. Functioning on only a few hours' sleep had its disadvantages.

"So, there hasn't been any change?"

"No, sir. That ship hasn't moved a twitch all night. Last I was there some of the crews were half-sleeping over their cannons."

"Then maybe it is just a merchantman," Norrington mused aloud. He was almost grateful: a false alarm at a time when it couldn't give him any more cause for concern than other matters had. "Few pirates would risk an open attack in broad daylight."

Nyx yawned loudly, putting a period to that sentence. She muttered something unintelligible in reply, and leaned into Taylor's leg. Between chasing rats and taking her first flight, she was as worn out as her caretaker.

Taylor looked down at the odd sound she made, and then back at his commander, taking in the man's spent countenance. "Sir, shall I go relieve them of the task, then?" he ventured. "I'd think they would like to get some sleep."

Hardly glancing up, Norrington detected the sparsely veiled suggestion. He waved a hand by way of dismissal. "Yes, you may do that. Keep a sharp watch until she sets sail."

The lieutenant gave Nyx one last pat on the head before departing. As the door closed behind him, the Commodore rose from his seat. "Needless to say, you can't sleep here in the office."

Nyx blinked drowsily, as if she hadn't heard or cared to hear. Reluctantly, she ambled away from the desk and through the door to the back room. From there she curled around the foot of the wardrobe, eyes falling shut with a final sigh of contentment, draping one wing over her face.

Removing his jacket, Norrington watched her doze for a moment, astonished yet again at how his brain somehow rationalized this as normal. _What a night_. He stretched out upon the cot, without bothering to pull the covers up, and stared listlessly over toward the window. He felt himself drift off not long afterward.

-----

Norrington half-slumped against the doorframe, and regarded his visitor with a bleary look.

"I believe _days_ was the word you used, Miss Swann, _days_ as in the plural interpretation of the noun _day_. You meant to visit again in a few days."

He should have made sure Nyx was adequately locked up and gone home. That way he could have ensured more than three hours of rest. He wouldn't be here, leaning out of his office door at ten in the morning, trying to convince himself to tell Elizabeth Swann that now wasn't a good time.

She smiled at him, unswayed by the weak, rambling argument. "Yes, I said that. But I think I've come up with a way to get food for her, and I thought you should know about it."

His thirst for solutions and sense of decorum won out over the semi-dispelled exhaustion. He stepped back, guiding her to a seat. "By all means, do share."

"After supper, I got to thinking about the slaughterhouse, the one down by the docks. The butchers are always leaving leftover scraps out. So I asked a few of the servants, and the cook to be sure. I thought, if stray dogs and cats can live off - are you listening to me, James?"

"Hm?"

"You're nodding off into your hand." She was peering intently across the desk. "Are you well?"

Norrington shook his head, a futile attempt to dislodge the haze. "A mite tired, that's all."

It must have sounded like an atypical form of contradiction. Elizabeth gave a small smile, not convinced. "I know what tired is, Commodore, and you're not that," she teased. "You look a scant step above the living dead."

"You'd find that chasing a dragon about the fort all night tends to do that to me," Norrington snapped, his patience thinned by fatigue. His voice had just taken on a life of its own, again. He had just blurted out the truth in front of her, again.

Of all the reactions available, Elizabeth chose to frown sympathetically. "So that's why you're acting like this? I thought something had happened. You're not usually this irritable."

"No," Norrington heaved a small sigh, knowing that was true. Mollified by her presence, he confided, "It's... it's not something I'm conditioned to do. It's not like managing a ship at sea: plotting courses, drilling, keeping logs, conducting a battle. All of that I can cope with. All this secrecy and covering one's tracks..."

"It isn't you," Elizabeth finished, understanding. "Do you think you will be able to maintain it? If you can't, I could take care of her."

"I wouldn't recommend taking it to that stage, Elizabeth," Norrington said with newfound vigilance. He wasn't _that_ far gone. "Nyx and I have reached an accord. I don't think she will be violating its clauses anytime soon. More to the point, I don't think you could hide her any more efficiently in a mansion than I have been able to here."

"I could work something out," Elizabeth insisted. "With the time I can spare, I could better tend to her needs. She may stay in the stables."

"With your father's carriage horses? I think not," Norrington half smirked, somewhat amused by the proposal, and rattled by the potential for disaster. "Who knows what great melee they would raise if they caught her scent? Even if they didn't, could you prevent her from cleaning out the henhouse in one night's time?"

Frowning at his humored look, Elizabeth folded her arms. "Then perhaps you will be so good as to enlighten me. What were the terms of this accord you reached?"

Knowing it would be pointless not to divulge the tale by now, Norrington recounted most of the events since becoming aware of Nyx's unauthorized walkabout. He explained Taylor's initiation into the scheme. The Frenchman's knowing and the unidentified ship's mysterious appearance: those facts he wouldn't convey, not until he had a greater understanding of their implications.

"Her first real meal consisted of rats?" Elizabeth's tone was one of disapproval.

The Commodore shrugged, barricading any nerves under a guise of calm reasoning. "She managed to catch something in the cellblock. I don't know how else to explain the bloodied lips."

"And none of the prisoners noticed her?"

"They were all sleeping soundly. Not one of them had anything to say about the matter the entire time I was down there."

"What if one of them did, but kept his opinion to himself?"

"Any case of it can be written off as a colorful story, Miss Swann. With the exception of Lieutenant Taylor, no one else knows."

If he was going to swear to near-secrecy and do it convincingly, he would need to start practicing it more frequently. Confidentiality had never been a skill he had felt the need to master in the past. It had been his idea to utilize it now, on a temporary basis. He had to if he was going to appease Elizabeth's concerns. What better person to practice with than one's ex-betrothed?

She stared at him, looking torn between doubt and uncertainty. He returned it with cool neutrality, unblinking. The standoff ensued for what felt like a full minute, with neither party giving ground.

Elizabeth broke it off, her eyes glancing toward the door. "May I see her for a moment?"

"I'm sure she would be pleased to see you," Norrington replied courteously. "But do keep it short. After last night's excursions, I think she would want to sleep as much as possible."

Sprawled with her wings tucked in, Nyx opened a sleepy eye, purring in welcome as Elizabeth stroked her neck. The dragonet had not moved from her place by the wardrobe all morning. Thus far she was proving to be a heavy sleeper. She hadn't stirred at the few times visitors had come to knock on the office door.

Norrington stood to the side, gazing out the window. Port Royal was a hub of activity this time of day, especially with the arrival of two new merchant ships down in the marina. It was a quaint sort of busy that did not waver as the temperatures rose. High above it all, the sun was shining at full strength with very little cloud cover, in sharp opposition to the dismal gray skies the rains had brought the few days before.

He studied the distant forms of the ships, as best he could without the aid of a spyglass. A visit to the docks would be in order later this afternoon. Neither vessel looked like it boasted a beak-shaped figurehead. Even if they did not, he could question their captains about the rig, which had vanished from its alcove after sunrise.

"James?" Elizabeth was looking up at him from where she crouched by Nyx's side. "Is something wrong?"

Damn it. He must have let his thoughts bleed through to his face again.

_Don't panic. Brush it off._ With surprising ease, he offered the first excuse that came to mind, "No, I was just admiring the view. Such lovely weather this time of year; the rains truly make one appreciate the nicer days."

He turned to look at said sight again as he explained this, without glancing back to see her reaction. The ruse wouldn't work if he did. He couldn't afford to show any signs he was holding information back. When she failed to pursue the subject further, he felt safe to assume he had covered that one well.

They went on to discuss a means of procuring slaughterhouse leftovers for Nyx to feed on. Elizabeth had had enough presence of mind to consider a more subtle approach: once the dragonet was shown the way, she could return each night at her leisure. This was in addition to whatever higher-grade manna they could secure for her without arousing suspicions.

The conversation slowly found its way back into the office. Not a moment too soon. They had just taken their seats again with a familiar courier made his arrival.

Norrington half-heartedly stood and returned the redcoat's salute. "Yes, Mr. Brigance. What is it?"

"One of the pirates - he's requested an audience with you, sir."

"For what purpose?"

"He wishes to negotiate."

_Negotiate what?_ If a gut reaction was a secure feeling to pull conclusions from, Norrington was correct in assessing the influx of information as uneasy. Something told him the pirate in question was the scarfaced Frenchman who had spoken last night.

"Very well."

He sent Brigance off to notify Groves and Lane. With the same air of professional formality, he insisted, "Miss Swann, I'm afraid we must continue our discussion at a later time. Shall I escort you to your coach?"

Elizabeth looked almost indignant, if not baffled, by this change in demeanor. Like her feathers had been ruffled by his cutting the conversation short. Being shut out in that way never failed to displease her. Nevertheless, she accepted his arm and allowed herself to be led out to the waiting carriage without complaint.

Almost.

It came as he offered a hand to help her up into the coach. "Take care with what they may tell you, James," she warned him, with a deadly serious glance. "Don't say anything that might endanger her."

Norrington worked not to let his contempt show. To cover, he offered an equally terse, "I won't. Good day, Miss Swann."

The carriage rattled away. He spared it a final look before turning back into the fort.

He didn't need to be told to be careful, least of all by her. It was a given fact. She couldn't possibly know the scope as to what the prisoner might have to say. There was no logical chance she was _that_ perceptive. It angered him that she had made such a point without even coming face-to-face with the pirates.

That being said, maybe she had only cautioned him out of concern for Nyx.

Brigance returned, showing him the way to the room. Norrington saluted to the guards posted to either side of the door before stepping inside. "Gentlemen, good day." Standing on ceremony, he nodded to each lieutenant in turn. "To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

"That would be him, sir," Lane indicated the figure seated across the table from where they stood. "_Monsieur_... Alouette, I believe."

The pallid face, made even more sunken when seen in daylight and riddled with filth, gave a haphazard grin. "_Oui_, Lieutenant, that is me." His shackled wrists rested on the table in front of him, completely at ease. "I do not believe we have been properly introduced, Commodore, but let us not bother acquainting ourselves. Tell me: what is it you and you compatriots are so desperate to know?"

The Commodore frowned. The cheerful tone fell on deafened ears. "We are aware of the possibility of the _Seraphine_ as having an accomplice. Can you confirm it?"

"Please, you Navy dogs are not that short of wit," Alouette rolled his eyes with a scoff. "You do not want confirmation. You want the names."

"The names that you claim to know, yes," Groves clarified. "And while we sincerely appreciate your potential to cooperate, whatever you may have to say is unsubstantiated. Why should we believe it?"

"Come, now, why would I lie? I have chosen to speak to you of my own volition, as honesty is now the only currency I can offer. If I did not think it could be corroborated, we would not be wasting my time here."

"How shall we go about doing that? Your comrades don't seem to feel the desire to be so candid with us."

"There is more than one path to the truth, Commodore. You must know that."

"Do you care to inform my lieutenants, then?"

Alouette frowned, squinting an eye. Then he gave a careless shrug. "Your _ami_, Darrow - he was kind to let us save _Capitaine_ Rochefort's records. Have a look. You will find he was not the only one to obtain a crate from Europe."

"His partner's name will be found on these documents?"

"Why would I give you a lead to the name of a man who does not exist?" When Norrington gave no reply, the Frenchman shrugged a second time. "The _capitaine_ was a very learned man. He did not trust La Claire would care so much about the potential good those documents could do."

"La Claire?" Lane prompted.

The reply came easily, with no effort made to swathe it in mystery. "Damien La Claire, of the _Corentin_. I never liked him, but the _capitaine_ admired his ways."

"How does this have any bearing upon how truthful _you_ are being?" Norrington asked, refusing to let this new information sway his attention. Alouette would spring his story any time now. "What is this document we should find?"

"It is a receipt, for the goods La Claire bartered. One crate for each ship; they were said to be extremely valuable parcels."

"How long ago?"

Gaze wandering, Alouette scratched at his sullied locks. "Eh... sixteen months, at the most. The _capitaine_ ordained they were to be treated like royalty until their time came."

"'Until their time came'?" Lane repeated, not understanding.

Groves stepped in. "Did Rochefort ever happen to tell you what these goods were?"

"Certainly. They were eggs."

Silence.

"Eggs?"

"_Oui._ Dragon eggs."

Norrington kept his features blank, glancing to his side to take in Grove's and Lane's expressions: confusion from the former, shock from the latter. As he expected.

"You expect us to believe that?"

"I expect nothing, Commodore. You know it to be true. Why deny it to your _cohorte_?"

"Because they wouldn't think me any more lucid than you for making such a claim. Rationality can only be gauged depending on the mouth it comes out of," Norrington replied snidely. "Your career as a pirate should tell us all we need to know about what you perceive as _rational_."

"Explain to them what it is that had you down in the cellblock last night, then."

There it was.

"A routine inspection is no cause for concern, no matter which officer conducts it," Norrington said with distain. "Not to mention my behavior isn't what is being called into question here."

The retort, delivered with his customary, dry sarcasm, seemed to be enough. The lieutenants' gazes remained focused on the pirate, unaffected.

Alouette rolled his eyes once more, leaning back in his seat. "I suppose denial comes to you more naturally than lying," he lamented. "I only wonder for the Fleur-de-Nuit's sake. How do you believe you can possibly raise her under such constraints?"

"This concoction is very fascinating," Groves interrupted. "But is that all you want: assurances that this... so-called dragon will be cared for?"

"It is not me who should be petitioning for assurances, _messieurs_. You are sailing into an unknown practice. She would be better off under the guidance of those who know what she is and can nurture her growth. Unlike you, Commodore, we can guarantee she will not become a nuisance to this fine colony. The _capitaine_ did not barter the creatures for use against you _Anglais_, but there is no telling what havoc she will wreak if she is not properly conditioned. All you need do is allow us to be on our way, and you may be off to dispose of La Claire at your leisure."

Groves said nothing.

Lane shook his head, looking strung between disbelief and mirth.

Norrington was frowning. Implying that he couldn't dissuade a newborn creature from developing into a giant liability: it was akin to a taunt. The Frenchman had said it himself that he was not fond of La Claire. Turning his identity in was a form of aggression. Trying to steal away with rights to Nyx, on the grounds that she would eventually defect back to her native background and turn on her caretakers, it was a ploy borne of desperation.

"We've nothing to left to discuss here," the Commodore said sharply. "We appreciate your information, and will make the appropriate mention of it at the time of your trial. In the meantime, the officers will arrange for new accommodations separate from your crewmates. Somehow I don't think they'll appreciate hearing what you've disclosed to us, or be shy of expressing their displeasure."

Lane summoned the marines waiting outside the door. Alouette was marched off, not before giving one last sneering look over his shoulder.

Groves shut the door after them. "What a load of tripe," he sighed exasperatedly. "Of all the stories I've heard in my life, that ranks with the better ones when it comes to sheer absurdity."

"Well, though we had to suffer listening to it, he was good enough to provide us with the names," Norrington mused. _In exchange for a lifetime supply of gruel and the satisfaction of turning in his dear, dead _capitane'_s associate._

"Were you down in the cells last night, sir?" Lane inquired.

He waved the question off. "Yes, I happened to pass by that way on my rounds. I took the liberty of inspecting the state of the prisoners out of standard procedure. It's nothing."

It was a plausible story, and they had no cause to want to cross examine it. With that settled, the lieutenants went on to talk about assembling the clerks to look for the receipt, as well as arranging the trials for the remaining Seraphinians. Norrington leant half an ear to the words, enough to detect the usual formalities of the conversation. What synapses that weren't listening to them were puzzling over the Frenchman's reasoning, trying to discern what trouble it could spell out now that his offer had been refused.

Alouette being French for _lark_ had its own irony. The Frenchman's hopes had been wispy and way up there, just like how that little songbird flew.

Exactly like how swans, though graceful and stylish on the surface, were some of the most vicious birds in the world.

**TBC**

**Notes:** It's pretty self-explanatory. The Commodore knows losing the _Interceptor_ and letting Sparrow slip away are both black marks to his record. Devising a means to apprehend the _Corentin_, while still making an effort to cope with Nyx, is an opportunity to rectify those recent mishaps. And he's a little leary of how much of a role Elizabeth plays in the latter problem.

**Rokhal** - Thank you for the review. An intriguing point you bring up about the practicality of Nyx taking her first flight unleashed. Later in the _Temeraire_ series, specifically the third book, it comes into play that a dragon doesn't necessarily have to be harnessed to be controlled. James doesn't know that, as he's more accustomed to making nonverbal contracts. I don't want to give everything away here, though. Let's suffice to say I plan to address that subject later in the plot.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 1/18/08


	8. Advocātus Diabolī

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** This chapter's title can be translated to _devil's advocate_.

Only recently have I found a few realistic maps of Port Royal. I've edited the earlier chapters for a more realistic sense of direction, but the Port Royal of PotC wasn't exactly like the one in Jamaica. For example, by the 1700s, most of the town had sunk underwater thanks to an earthquake. Some artistic liberties have been taken here and there.

-----

_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

-----

_Chapter Eight - Advocātus Diabolī_

The shadow fell across him seconds before the attack.

He was struck from behind, feeling the weight settle precariously upon each shoulder. This time he managed not to falter, bracing a leg to prevent the fall. Luckily, the cloak continued to hold up against any scratches. He could feel where the claws hooked deep into the fabric.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the weight was gone, along with his hat.

"Nyx," Norrington sighed. "This isn't any more amusing now than it was twenty minutes ago." The first instance had ended with him being sent stumbling to his knees.

It was impossible to see her, so he didn't bother with scanning the sky. Rather, he heard the leathery _whoosh_ of her wings as she came flapping back. The dragonet came to an easy landing on the road in front of him, giving rise to a cloud of flying sand. One edge of the tricorne was gripped firmly between her teeth.

This was the fourth time she had pulled the stunt, and she was _still_ grinning about it.

"_Où est ton sens de l'humour?_" _Where's your sense of humor?_

"On hiatus," Norrington grumbled, primly smoothing the hat's folds to his liking. Placing it firmly back upon his head, he added, "You agreed to behave, and to walk. This hardly meets the standard of either provision."

He had managed six uninterrupted hours of sleep prior to sunset, the longest nap in half a week's time. Leaving Groves to handle the acquisition of the _Seraphine_'s documents, it left the Commodore free to tend to Nyx, and to show her the way down to the marina. The plan, which had panned out beautifully to start, was simple enough: he had locked up his office and left the fort, with the faux intention to return home, and she had glided down from the balcony to catch up.

She had been nothing but a bother since.

The dragonet folded her wings up at the reminder, her head ducking apologetically. There was barely enough moonlight to expose her against the darkness, dark blue against black. "_Pardon,_" she muttered.

Norrington felt his irritation taper off. Admittedly, he was not as irate as he sounded. She had done an admirable job of staying out of sight thus far. But then they had not passed by anyone yet, so that assumption was largely untested. Wary of that fact in itself, watching her fall into step right beside him did nothing to settle his nerves.

"No, we've already discussed that: the edge of the road is where you can most quickly duck to cover."

Nyx favored him with an unreadable look, showing no signs of deviating from her place. "_Juste pour un certain temps?_" _Just for a while?_

He decided an allowance could be made. Acting so restive over what had not happened yet and faulting her for it: that would not do.

"Very well."

The walk from Fort Charles down into Port Royal took ten minutes on a good day. There was time to flatten out any discrepancies in the unfolding scenario.

It wasn't as though anyone would recognize him: a common traveler's cloak in the place of his uniform jacket, boots in lieu of buckle shoes to conceal the white stockings, with a low-brimmed tricorne minus the powdered wig. This time of night, most civilians would be retired to their beds or eating a late supper at most. Those that weren't, they would pay no heed to one more rover in their midst. And those were the nice ones. Ever aware of the possibility of running into the more seedy lowlifes, Norrington had opted to keep his sword on hand.

It had been effective enough to fool Nyx at first. She had been wary enough to wait, crouched low in the nearby vegetation, until he called to her before she followed his lead. Curious as she had seemed, she had not asked about it.

The first attempt on the hat had come a few minutes later.

"_Où allons-nous?_" _Where are we going?_

"The slaughterhouse, down by the docks," Norrington replied, hushed even though there was no real need to whisper. The thought had crossed his mind, but his conscience had reasoned there was little cause to be so secretive. Just like it reasoned what was the difference between a pig's remains and a few prison rats? Nyx had demonstrated her willingness to try anything once quite prominently. "You should be able to find an ample supply of food there."

Nyx's glowing eyes brightened at the mention. "_Combien beaucoup_?" _How much?_

"It will be enough for you to exist on in addition to whatever we can arrange for you at the fort. I doubt the butchers will care if you relieved them of the discarded meat. There are enough strays pestering that trash as it is."

"S... tra-ays?"

Norrington looked down, mildly bemused by this latest attempt at English. She seemed given to attempt pronouncing those words she did not understand. "Ownerless dogs and cats," he explained. "I must point out that they are off limits, though. Nothing is known to prey on them. It would look very odd if their carcasses suddenly started appearing around the colony."

Nyx tilted her head, in that characteristic way that broadcasted her own confusion. "_Si vous le dites._" _If you say so._

"I'm accompanying you this once. Do you think you could find your own way from now on?"

"_Oui._"

The ground beneath their feet had leveled off on the final stretch of road. The Commodore came to a halt, seeing they were on the very edge of the network of roads that wound their way through the maze of buildings. Judging by the smell and from what he knew of Port Royal's setting, they would be obligated to take a route through the heart of the working district, across a corner of the more-pristine town square, and past a few late hour dwellings before reaching the marina.

Nyx stood at attention, tail idly swishing to and fro. "_Qu'est-ce que c'est?_" _What is it?_

The simple query was enough to pull him out of another reverie, albeit not completely. "I'm thinking. Would it be better if you were to follow my progress from the air?"

The dragonet glanced momentarily at the sky, then back to him. Her expression suggested nothing save for a hint of guarded worry. "_Je préfère rester._"

_I prefer to stay._

"It would be safer if you were to fly."

"_Qu'en est-il de vous?_" _What about you?_

_What _about_ me, indeed._ Ignoring the inwardly sarcastic reaction, Norrington regarded Nyx's body language. Exempting the tail, which gradually stilled, nothing else swayed. She looked oddly serious, a new feat for someone less than forty-eight hours old.

Why would she worry for his safety? It was his job to worry about her, not the other way around.

"I'll be all right, Nyx. Most nights there is nothing to fear in Port Royal, and should trouble arise it wouldn't be the first time I have defended myself." Better to reassure her now than waste time figuring it out. "You needn't worry."

She still looked rigid with uncertainty. Eventually, pondering it over, she caved to the logic, bobbing her head once. She about-faced, scampering back up the incline to a higher point on the path. Wings flexing, she waited long enough to launch into the air on the next breeze, flapping less-than-gracefully away into the dark.

Norrington waited and listened for the telltale swoop overhead before he strode off. As this sound came repeat itself several times, he could discern the dragonet was having no trouble keeping track of him.

A thick silence ensued after a time. He made no effort to evict it, hardly batting an eye to the occasional creak of wood or slamming of a door in the distance. Here and there a shop's lantern blazed brightly enough to ward off the worst of the blackness. Ordinary sights and sounds: nothing to suggest any sense of impending trouble.

_At least the sky is clear_, the Commodore mused, glancing up above the rooftops. As he watched, the circling dragonet's dark silhouette meandered across the sight, blotting out stars.

Remembering the thick, suffocating fog that had engulfed Port Royal prior the _Black Pearl_'s arrival brought back no small measure of emotions. He recalled how dark it had been, the ominous undertones that he had felt, and dismissed at the time as nothing worth acknowledging. That night was fresh in his memories, on par with the events of Isla de Muerta.

To her credit, the _Pearl_ had used the element of surprise well. Alleviated by the news that Jack Sparrow had been taken into custody the atmosphere had been undeniably smug at the time. Many of the officers had been comfortably laid back, not attending to their duties as usual, but too busy regaling the tale to those who had not been present.

Then the pirates had struck, throwing the colony into a fit of pandemonium, and found their way into the fort. They were able to steal away with many provisions, slaughtering anyone who tried barring them from that goal. The raid on the armory alone had meant the lives of half a dozen Marines and debilitating wounds to twice as many.

Between the attack and the bloodbath at the Island of Death, the ranks were noticeably depleted. The overall dead had outnumbered the wounded three to one. In a way, the _Echelon_'s arrival had been a timely occurrence, with her excess personnel becoming available to fill in the gaps, to serve as substitutes until the injured recovered.

Perhaps they would get lucky and H.M.S. _Maverick_, the fourth and final ship of the squadron, would make port for some unforeseen misfortune.

And here he was, trying to eradicate another deputation of French pirates, while passing a dragon food scraps under the table, his only incentive for not doing away with her being his ex-fiancée's affection for the creature. At the same time he had made a pact that said creature would eventually be assimilated enough to wander freely about the town. Given what had happened immediately before this, Admiral O'Rourke might not be so understanding, and if he did not approve, Norrington did not think Governor Weatherby Swann would either.

Should this come to a debatable, public matter, he did not think he would like the odds.

A frenetic clucking issued from somewhere up ahead. Startled, the Commodore held fast for a moment, listening to the frantic wing beats with a mixture of dismay and alarm. Hearing the aggressive hissing that followed, he hurried forward, rounding the corner as the bird gave a final squawk.

Nyx was crouched over the crumpled form of a chicken, her jaws locked around the neck. Her wings were fanned possessively around her prize, the light from her eyes casting a harsh glow on the brown-red mess. Even as she bit down with more force, fresh crimson oozed to stain the gripping claws.

Suddenly taking notice of the witness, the killer straightened up, hastily spitting out feathers, looking as guilty as a child found with one hand in the cookie jar.

"Just what exactly do you think are you doing?" Norrington demanded in an angry whisper, torn between peevishness and shock.

"Um," Nyx clamped her bloodied mouth shut, eyes darting. "_J'étais... chasse._" _I was hunting._

"I can see that," Norrington snapped, stooping down. He lifted the corpse by its legs and studied it at arm's length, lip curled in disgust.

"_Il n'a jamais vu moi_." _He never saw me. _Gloating.

"It wasn't yours to hunt. This bird belongs to someone."

"_Qui? Où?_" _Who? Where?_

Apparently, dragons thought all meat was created equal, and free for the taking. He could not fault her for believing that when he had said nothing otherwise. "It must be someone somewhere nearby. But that's beside the point, Nyx. Chickens are typically owned by families. You can't partake in what isn't yours. That is stealing."

She frowned, eyes squinting in confusion. "S...teel-ling?"

"Yes. A _voleur_, or thief, is someone who steals. You cannot take what isn't yours to begin with, not without consent. _Comprendre_?"

She gave a small, meek nod.

Norrington dropped the bird. He wasn't going to hold a seminar over moral conduct with a dead chicken serving as a literal example, not without the risk of drawing unwanted attention. "Good. Now, come along." Hopefully the damaged party would think a stray dog had mauled the bird. It was known to happen.

"_Comment est-ce différent du rat?_" _How is that different from rats?_ He heard footsteps from behind, scrambling to catch up.

He slowed his stride. "No one owns the rats in the fort," Norrington sighed, without bothering to look down at her. "They are pests. There was no sum to be lost by you eating them."

Equating the two words as similar: "_Somme?_"

"Money, currency. It's what humans use to bargain with. We trade it in exchange for goods and food."

"_Quelle est son apparence?_" _What does it look like?_

Reluctantly coming to a stop, Norrington extracted a sample from one pocket, spare change always kept on hand. He knelt down and held them out for her to see, explaining, "These are called shillings and pennies. In addition to them, there are crowns and guineas. Each type is of a different value, and every country has its own system."

The coins were unexceptional, drab copper and tarnished silver. Nyx peered down at them with great interest nonetheless. "_Où aves-vous obtenu les eux?_" _Where did you get them?_

"You earn them through doing work. That's why people take on jobs. Currency is the means by which we buy provisions and other such things they need to survive." Norrington paused to let that settle. "That chicken, for instance, would have cost one or two of these-"-indicating the pennies-"in a legal purchase."

Nyx's frown was thoughtful. "_Intéressant système,_" she murmured. "_Pourquoi?_"

"Why what?"

"_Pourquoi utilisez-vous l'argent?_" _Why do you use the money?_

Norrington held the reply back, thinking carefully on how to word the answer. "It... promotes order, I suppose. Civilization wouldn't be very easy to maintain without something to use as a bargaining tool."

"_Levier?_" _Leverage?_

"It gives one something to work for. It's a matter of personal opinion how important one may find it, though."

With that conclusion, he pocketed the coins before Nyx could ask another question. It was a good start in dissuading her from a career in piracy. However, one subject would inevitably lead to another, and he would spend the rest of the night reciting the fascinating fundamentals of human mannerisms. To his relief, she did not pursue the subject.

The trip to the docks went on without further calamity. As they drew closer, Norrington could hear the hushed crash of waves breaking on the shore. The scent of salted air was a welcome sensation after enduring the unsavory smell of clutter and mildew. Masts of moored ships, sails furled, towered over the nearby buildings.

Nyx also seemed to be re-energized by the change in scenery. Having walked the remainder of the journey, she made a fluttering hop, up onto a nearby barrel resting against a wall. "_Est-ce le quai?_" _Is this the dock?_ She reared onto her stout back legs, eyes wide with great curiosity.

"Close to it," the Commodore replied, glancing about, assuring himself this conversation was remaining private. "The slaughterhouse isn't far from here, down by the beach on the western edge of the docks. Can you smell it?"

The forked tongue snaked out, testing the air. If possible, the dragonet's eyes went even wider upon detection. "_Oui._"

"You're free to have any scraps you can find," Norrington lectured. "And I mean _only_ the scraps. The fishermen won't appreciate you gorging yourself on their good stock."

"_Vous n'êtes pas à venir?_" _You aren't coming?_

"No, I thought I..." Meeting her now-imploring gaze, he trailed off uncertainly. "Why? I said you could feed and fly back to Fort Charles of your own liking."

Nyx looked equally unsure of what to say. Her talons dug anxiously into the barrel's rim. "_Je ne veux pas être laissés suels._" _I don't want to be left alone._

Puzzled by her behavior, Norrington tried not to frown, unsuccessfully. This was odd, considering she had been more than enthusiastic about taking her maiden flight, or about slipping away from his office to hunt down rodents. Then again, she had upheld her word in not straying away from the fort. He couldn't remember seeing her dip out of sight. There had been a lot of experimental banking and twirling, making one pass after the other. She returned five minutes later, just before Taylor had arrived, and seemed none the worse for wear.

Perhaps she wasn't as independent as he had hoped.

Nyx ducked her head, eager for a response.

Despite the species gap, he was the adult here. He shouldn't be the one to worry _why_.

"All right."

Just this once, he would stay nearby.

In addition to the remains of pig, goat, and sheep, seafood turned out to be a big hit. Restored to her previous state of happy inquisitiveness, Nyx sampled every species of fish available: snatching up each discarded remain, stripping the meat down to the skeleton before going so far as to crunch that down to a pulp. Only when she found herself the subject of her caretaker's stern glare did she shy away from the good mackerels strung on a rack for drying.

Norrington was content to wait as long as need be. He stood at the edge of the sand, admiring the view of the harbor from this different perspective to pass the time. Overhead, the headland reached up into the sky, its jungles ringing with the droning of cicadas. The silhouette of the _Dauntless_, in comparison, was a jagged and silent element in the landmark's shadow.

His pensive gaze rested on the flagship for a long while. Idly, he wondered where they would be now if the _Echelon_ had not made port, if one day's head start had truly been all the advantage the _Pearl_ would have.

Who knew? Spontaneous and half-mad as he could appear, it was safe to say Jack Sparrow did not behave entirely like the typical pirate.

Sand flew in a sudden vortex of stirred air, and Nyx alighted on a nearby tangle of driftwood. Her jowls were bloody and covered in bits of scales. It was a sloppy look, unbecoming of the solicitude on her face. "_Êtes-vous bien, James?_"

"I'm fine. I was only thinking."

"_Sur ce que?_" _About what?_

"Other matters. It's nothing that would interest you."

The vague attempt to redirect her interest failed. "_Que faites-vous comme un Commodore?_"

"What?"

"_Vous aves présenté vous-même comme un Commodore. Vous n'avez jamais expliqué ce que cela signifie._" _You introduced yourself as a Commodore. You have never explained what that means._

Norrington sighed quietly, resigning to yet another lecture. "It's a title within the Royal Navy." Sensing this would blossom into another lengthy conversation, he allowed himself to sit. It was preferable after such a long walk, and in this half-uniform any grass stains would not matter.

Her bewilderment did not appear sated. "_Vous n'avez jamais expligué ce que la Royal Navy a été soit._" As she spoke, the dragonet crept over to stand beside him. _You have never explained what the Royal Navy was either._

So he explained, in short, precise terms, what it was.

"And a Commodore is an officer, usually of the post-captain rank, who is temporarily appointed to command a squadron of vessels in a given region."

Nyx sat and listened, like the good attentive pupil would. Her head twisted around, toward the warship resting at anchor, having noticed his earlier object of meditation. "_Est que l'un vos navires?_" _Is that one of your ships?_

"Yes, that is the _Dauntless_." Indicating the navy's pier: "And that one is the _Echelon_."

"_Existe-t-il d'autres?_" _Are there others?_

"One: the _Maverick_ is out on patrol at the moment, and not due back for a month yet."

Omitting the whole mess with the _Interceptor_ would not do her account any harm. He need not tell someone who couldn't appreciate the grating irony of a promotion to a squad leader and losing the navy's fastest ship within the same week. That notion brought its own kind of pain, and he was content to keep it undisclosed.

"_Pourquoi n'êtes-vous pas là-bas?_" _Why are you not there?_

"I don't need to be. She has a captain of her own."

Nyx's glowing eyes were narrow and shrewd. "_Pourquoi êtes-vous ici sur terre, alors?_" _Why are you here on land, then?_

"Navy men don't spend their entire lives on the ocean," the Commodore retorted, quite snappishly. "We are still human. If we had been meant for life on the sea we'd have gills and finned appendages."

The sarcasm was lost. "_Alors pourquoi allez?_" _So why go?_

Norrington met her gaze; his own was blank, but his mind felt caught between disbelief and confusion at the simple question. What was she implying? _How_ could she imply anything at this stage? Recalling her soft plea for him to stay, he reminded himself: she is _still_ a baby, with a lot of growing up to do. Any implimentations weren't conscious.

"It's part of my profession, Nyx. The sea is a dangerous place, yes, but a navy is essential to any country's defense and prosperity. Weathering such an enviorment while trying to make the West Indies a safer place for the average man: I guess I find it all very appealing, and that's that."

The severity of his tone must have silenced her, for the dragonet was quiet for a long time afterward, not meaning to strike a nerve. She stared silently out at the _Dauntless_, mouth set and unreadable. Watching her, Norrington let the tension drain away to a hollow emptiness, and looked instead at the distant lights of the fort.

Against the clear sky, he could almost see the Union Jack waving from its post.

Watching it fly, he hardly flinched when Nyx leaned over, resting against him and asked, kindly, to be told what a _coon-tree_ was.

**TBC**

**Notes:** Those who don't get it, Webster defines a _devil's advocate_ as any party who supports an unpopular cause out for the sake of exposing it to a thorough examination. I find it sums up James' attitude toward Nyx fairly well.

**Atticus620** - Thank you for the kind words. I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far. Truth be told, the lack of reviews does not bother me. The _Temeraire_ books are a pretty unsung series. It doesn't surprise me that a lot of people wouldn't be curious in reading an unknown/PotC crossover.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 1/24/08


	9. Follow The Screams Part I

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** I had a feeling this one would be fun to write, so I broke it down into parts for the sake of making it easier to take in. Most parts are about 20Ks in size, or 2,000 words, which equals 4,000. Promise kept.

The chapter title stems from a line by Jeff Goldblum in _The Lost World: Jurassic Park_.

Nyx's translations have been shorted. The italized dialogue indicates French-spoken phrases.

Thanks to Dread-Pirate-Kidd for the subscription alert.

--

_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

--

_Chapter Nine - Follow The Screams: Part I_

Norrington curled his hand about the quill, covering a wince as the motion pulled at the freshest set of scratches, and gingerly scrawled the remainder of the sentence. Nyx's forays into the shallows were meeting with mixed sucess as of late. The smaller fish and prawn didn't give her any trouble. It was those cases when she was feeling lucky and happened to become the victim of an indignant crab or lobster's pinching claws that he was forced to intervene and seperate predator from prey.

The mixed diet of gutted livestock and seafood was having some effect. She was growing far quicker than he had anticipated. At two weeks old, the dragonet had tripled in length and now had a wingspan that was greater than he was tall. Standing on all fours, the top of her head was at level with most tabletops.

And still she insisted on having him escort her to every dinner session. This evening constitutional, as Gillette had put it, was fast becoming routine. Spilt blood and excess stress were all part of the price of admission.

Thankfully, his current company did not seem to mistake his uncharacteristic silence for a sign of preoccupation with anything more than writing a letter. They were too busy looking over a map of the greater Caribbean Sea and talking amongst themselves.

In those days following the last interrogation, the Seraphinians had been tried, and in the process of perishing one by one. The hangings had started five days ago, with two to three pirates meeting their end per occasion.

With every death Renard Alouette had become more and more forthcoming in speculating about where the _Corentin_ might be. La Claire's favored port of call was rumored to be only a few days' sail from Port-de-Paix, on a small cay not far from another that had been the _Seraphine_'s usual berth.

It was best to take any information the pirate saw fit to offer with a grain of salt. He would be spending the rest of his natural life in a cell. One had to assume that he wouldn't cooperate totally and truthfully with his captors. What he had said about the receipt had panned out, but it was no reason to go trusting everything else Alouette claimed.

This dilemma was what had Baxter Darrow and Orville Sanderson scratching their heads.

Groves and Taylor were only there to offer insight, for lack of having anything better to do.

Sergeant Brigance's interruption might have been welcome if it were not for the tint of anxiety. He made his salutations, delievered the envelopes, and departed without further ado, so quickly it left the naval lieutenants staring and inquiring as to what that was about. More intrigued than befuddled, Darrow pried his letter open, and Norrington followed suit.

They were dinner invitations, to the home of Robert and Victoria Brigance, advertising a banquet set two days hence. It made perfect sense: the sergeant's reputation as a myrmidonic courier would not stand in the face of matters surrounding his family. The deep row between Lyle and his father over the boy's choice to go into the military, rather than go on to manage the family's thriving sugar plantations, was well known throughout the ranks. It gained Lyle much unwanted sympathy, as he went about most days objectively tending to his duties and pretending he was not the prodigal son of one of the richest Englishmen in Jamaica.

How unfortunate that he should be the one to dispatch the post.

The details were vague, extensive in permitting them to bring any respectable company to the occasion. Both commanders conveyed this information to their subordinates, receiving delighted looks for their trouble.

"What's the occasion, Captain?" Taylor asked, for protocol was a nullified practice at the moment.

Darrow consulted the parchment once more, adjusting his scholarly reading glasses. "The eighteenth birthday of Miss Judith Brigance," he relayed. "Much as we all know how she dislikes these things, Brigance has seen fit to subject her to yet another one."

Taylor cast a sideways glance at Sanderson. "I'm surprised to see he didn't draft an explicit invitation for you, Orv."

The _Echelon_'s flag lieutenant colored lightly and said nothing. Miss Brigance's penchant for him had been public knowledge since the eve of her sixteenth birthday. Though she was no means as outspoken as Elizabeth Swann, that night she had dared to steal a quick kiss from Sanderson, in the middle of the dance floor when she thought her father was not watching. The verbal flogging that followed was hard to forget. Sanderson had never once put his reaction into words, and it had since evolved into a defaulted excuse for ribbing from his fellow officers.

Norrington was equally silent. His mind was already swirling with a myriad of feelings on the subject. Even if it weren't for his obligations to Nyx, any party was the last thing he wanted to contend with. According to what society could know, he had scarcely gone home these last fourteen days and rountinely left the fort only for his newfound habit of a walk at sundown. Being labelled as a recluse would not do good for maintaining the public's confidence in him.

"So," he began, drawing both his lieutenants' attentions. "I suppose you two would wish to attend?"

Just because Judith Brigance was swooned did not mean other unattached bachelorettes wouldn't be present.

"If you would be so kind, sir."

Groves was more contemplative than Taylor. "If the event Andrew will decline, I suppose I would, too," he offered after a moment of thought. That was an indirect _yes_, considering Gillette's well-established distain for lacey, civilian social gatherings.

"Very well, then."

Norrington set the invitation aside without further interest, military business having prominence here. The letter he had been writing to Admiral O'Rourke was nearly finished. He would draft a reply after it was done.

"Anyway," Darrow said, turning back to the map. The others followed suit. "I think we can agree that..."

The discussion quieted and gradually faded off. The lack of sea-going activity on part of the _Dauntless_ and the _Echelon_, with the opposite being true of HMS _Maverick_, did not mean the paperwork stopped. In the midst of charting a hypothetical course, Norrington had commissioned some clerks to the task of preparing a synopsis regarding the _Interceptor_ and Isla de Muerta, undead pirates and all. It was pointless to delay its referral any longer. This letter would compliment the report with a recommendation of approving a mass patrol to narrow down the search area for the _Corentin_. Three ships were not enough; more eyes on the trade winds would prove more effective.

Naturally, such a massive undertaking would cost the Admiralty a great deal. The Commodore had his doubts that the admiral would green light him to command the expedition. He was banking on the hope that, failing to find anyone else, O'Rourke would be inclined to postpone the thought of court-martialing him.

The scenario continued to dog his thoughts late into the afternoon. Sprawled on the cot behind his office, half dozing, he failed to notice how quickly sundown came, almost not caring to notice the warm snout that was prodding his arm.

Nyx had no such qualms of waking him up by any means necessary. Given to that affectionate nibbling since her first night of life, the dragonet had yet to learn that that greeting, now induced with those larger, serrated teeth, was unnecessarily painful.

"You know, there are less painful ways of getting my attention," Norrington lectured, without bothering to rise. "I believe a simple _s'éveiller_ would be enough."

She gave a deceivingly innocent smile. "_I know. It's more amusing this way, though._"

The Commodore rolled his eyes. She wouldn't be claiming that if it was her hand being maimed every evening.

This attitude persevered throughout the trek down to the marina. Nyx attacked the free plethora of food without delay. Norrington moved to his usual place at the edge of the grassy rise, taking a seat upon a dry stack of driftwood. Clad in, what he thought of as, his half-uniform, he had no compunctions about what harm the old coat might come to, or the trousers he had recently added to the shabby ensemble.

The scraps of the slaughterhouse dwindled quickly. Soon enough, Nyx trotted past him, down the beach to continue hunting. With the tide out, she was quite content to kill time by digging around in the mud, excavating a rock or clam or shrimp.

Norrington watched the display with an expression of disgust, miffed by the sight of such uncleanliness. "You had better bathe after you're done there," he warned.

"_I always do._" It was a proven fact: that first night here Nyx had been curious enough to wade in and clean her mouth and claws. She had later proclaimed the water to be warm and very pleasant. Instead of dead fish and rotting pork, she usually exuded a faint scent of salt. "_Don't worry._"

Heedless of that last bit of advice, Norrington looked about. Besides sitting there observing her antics, he kept a watch on the shadows around them. This was a fairly unsecured regime; any stray set of eyes could be drawn to investigate. There was no cause to become complacent, especially if they had been lucky so far.

Nyx was a youthful and careless character; with no air of discretion yet clear in her behavior that did not look to change soon. Her moments of sullen understanding came and went like the wind. Any sense of dignity she had was as fleeting. Bounding around at the water's edge, exuberantly flapping her wings to skirt the breaking waves, the ensuing fracas rose to a new level of intensity.

Norrington finally stood, unable to keep quiet any longer. "Nyx, come out of there."

It wasn't a yell, but it had the sharpness of a commanding bark. Instantly disheartened, the dragonet obediently trudged up the slope, glistening wet and shivering against the nighttime breeze, mud and grains of sand adhering to her taloned feet. "_Is something wrong?_"

A stern reminder was in order. He led her inland, around to the far side of the empty slaughterhouse where there was no chance of being spotted. "You need to keep _quiet_," Norrington hissed, extracting a handkerchief. He ran it over the cerulean hide, mopping up most of the excess water. "You're not as little as you were before, and all your splashing about is bound to draw someone's attention."

Still dripping from the face, Nyx glanced toward the nearby homes, specifically the darkened windows that stayed unlit. "_But no one's seen me._"

"Yet, but I can't say that will last if you keep disturbing the peace like this."

They had endured several of these lectures before, every other night or so. Nyx's body was developing faster than her ability to recognize the consequences of her antics. She showed a great interest in everything else around her - the fort, the ships, the town, the sea - in addition to anything she could not directly experience: all the intricacies of the Royal Navy, the Marines, England, even France and the differences between the two.

Invariably, Elizabeth, Taylor, and Gillette had all been paying their visits. The lieutenants, though apprehensive of her great curiosity at first, were happy to indulge her with lectures. Elizabeth's visitations were more rare, and took place during the day. Her concern was more for Nyx's physical well being, and the journal of measurements had quickly become a staple in assuring her the dragonet was tacking on size.

Everything and anything that did not have to do with the common civilian, Nyx knew, and that reservoir of informational fodder was fast drying up. Her longer flights outside the fort testified to the budding awareness of there being a world outside of Port Royal. At the rate she was growing there soon wouldn't be anything to keep her from going where she pleased.

Norrington had been giving the matter some thought. A leash was looking less and less practical. At the size of the smallest mule, the dragonet would be better suited to be put in a comparable rig. Something had to be done to quell her lust to explore, and soon, before it became a source of dissent between her and her caretaker.

The following day, Elizabeth Swann was the first one to propose a solution.

"_This_ is what you've been doing?" he asked, more dubious than appalled as he looked over the crude diagrams that she had handed him.

Elizabeth set the cup of tea down, amused by his reaction. "Why are you so surprised, James? Besides needlepoint, it's not as though I have much else to do at home."

_Apart from your paid calls to Mr. Brown's smithy,_ Norrington mused to himself, keeping his eyes down. She had confided to him Will Turner's attempts at teaching her the art of fencing, and the Commodore wisely refrained from verbalizing any mention of it since.

They were pictures, sketched in charcoal with countless notes filling the margins. Lateral and frontal views of Nyx had been lightly stenciled onto the parchment. Over this, Elizabeth had drawn a series of interconnecting straps and buckles, fitted to the contours of the dragonet's profile. Centered about the torso, circling the base wing joints, and wrapped above the shoulders: a concept harness.

"Molly threw a shoe on the drive home a few days ago, and the servants had to take her to Mr. Brown's the next day. In the meantime, I studied her harness. So when they returned, I asked Charles where it was purchased. As it turns out, Father had them custom crafted by Mr. Eriskine here in Port Royal only four years ago."

Norrington recognized the name: Emil Eriskine was the colony's best saddle and harness maker, and highly regarded by the mounted units. Then, belatedly, he realized what the governor's daughter was implying. "You don't mean to request him to fabricate such a thing, do you?"

Elizabeth shrugged unapologetically. "I thought of asking Will to give it a try, but he doesn't have access to all of the materials," she replied casually.

_Nor is metalworking quite the same thing as harness making._ While his military conscience was mulling over this, he was staring at her, worry rising.

"I haven't told him all about Nyx. Don't look so petrified."

The tide of unease subsided. Somewhat. "_All_ about?"

"As far as he knows she's just another Percheron in Father's stables."

It would have been better if she had not said anything at all. Not that he was going to challenge it, as Norrington tactfully held his tongue in check. He wasn't going to let her drag him into a debate regarding white lies versus the whole truth.

Regarding the diagrams once more, he offered, "Eriskine sells unfinished leather and fastening parts in addition to completed products. For the right price, I'm sure he would be willing to part with some of his stock. We could amass what is needed before figuring out how to tack it all together, once these plans have been refined a little more."

It was enough of a preliminary response to allay Elizabeth's wish. She smiled and sipped tea without further elaborance on the plot.

After so many unescorted visits to his office, the Commodore had all but lost his reluctance of admitting her to the back room when she asked, as Elizabeth was always keen to see how Nyx was faring. The dragonet managed a slurring _bonsoir_ in greeting, although it was still early in the afternoon, and lapsed back into a dead sleep.

Seeing her there, Norrington was abruptly reminded of the upcoming gala. "I take it your Father received an invitation to the Brigance residence?" he prompted, from where he stood in the doorway.

Elizabeth glanced at him over her shoulder, her sympathetic dismay plain to see. "Of course. And am I to suppose you suffered a similar fate?"

A commonality of opinion: the Brigances were not an unpleasant people, nor were they close friends (with the exception of Lyle) of the military or the governor.

"You suppose correctly. Before you ask, I already plan to explain it to her tonight." As far as he knew, _her_, Nyx, was a heavy sleeper, and went deaf during the diurnal hours.

"Will she be all right with it?"

"If it is brought up at the right time. She becomes very complaisant after she eats."

A few excavated bodies of spiny lobster provided the dragonet with a tasty new side dish. After tasting the first, Nyx showed venerable restraint, setting them aside until the end of her meal. She was content to flop down in the grass with these treasures spread out before her, alternating between talking and chewing the remains up bite by bite, savoring the opportunity.

Seizing the chance to digress to another topic, Norrington spoke up in the midst of a one-sided conversation on Elizabeth's plans for the harness. "You know, I don't think it would do any significant damage to school you in a little dinner etiquette," he muttered, sitting cross-legged just beyond the debris field of broken lobster parts.

"_Etiquette?_"

"Yes. We could begin with a lesson in not talking with your mouth full."

The chewing slowly came to a stop under the condescending gaze. A spindly lobster leg protruded from the side of her mouth, which Nyx glanced at in surprise before hastily chewing up and swallowing. Selling her sincerity, she went so far as to wipe at her muzzle with a forepaw.

Norrington smiled humorlessly. "That's better."

"_Was that all?_"

"For now. The reason I bring it to your attention is because I don't think Gillette will be too impressed with how I've failed to teach you those sooner."

"_Why do you say that?_"

Norrington sighed and glanced away, hoping this behavior broadcasted how he felt about admitting this. "The night after next I have an engagement I must attend to, and the lieutenant will be the one escorting you here. I'm trusting you to behave yourself under his watch."

"_Behave myself?_" Her head tilted to one side, eyes looking suspended between confusion and worry. "_What is this... engagement?_"

"A dinner party: a few hours of discussion, eating, dancing. It shouldn't last very long."

"_That doesn't sound like a... military thing._"

"It's more of a civilian function, being held in honor of a particular person's birthday. Most of the upper class society will be there, and one would expect a Commodore to attend. Do you understand?"

Pondering this, Nyx scratched at her lip with one talon, another nervous habit. "_Somewhat,_" she admitted. "_You never told me a lot about the..._ uhp-per clah-hass."

Norrington adverted his gaze, grimacing. Damn, he should have considered that. "How's this - on the condition you don't give Gillette any problems, I'll explain everything you want to know on that subject upon my return?"

"_Couldn't I just come along?_"

"No." Their old banter refused to be swept under the rug without a fight. "As I said last night, you're quite a bit bigger than you were upon hatching. Hiding in the shadows isn't a universal option."

"_I wouldn't get too close, just enough to keep within sight and make sure you're safe._"

"Nyx, your concern is much appreciated, but I won't need a guardian. There's no danger to expect at an occasion like this. The life of a civilian is far less hazardous than that of a militant."

"_I suppose..._"

"Have I yet lied to you?"

"_No._" With her wings mantling and furling restlessly, Nyx continued to look apprehensive, if not woeful, refusing to meet his eyes. Her head was ducked in that way that showed she understood. Semi-acceptance was the best she could muster.

It was almost funny to be a witness to. For all her vernal disposition, the dragonet seemed genuinely worried for him, to a grade that contrasted sharply with her two weeks of age. If only she was wise enough to apply such anguish to the issue of what might be done if she was discovered.

Norrington found himself smiling, with more warmth this time. "I'll be all right, Nyx. I promise."

Those two words had not faltered in providing assurance in the past. The white eyes looked his way, with a beseeching glint standing in place of the absent pupils. The stare down lasted less than a minute, and she inched closer to the offered hand, purring in a low note of contentment as he stroked her brow.

**TBC**

**Notes:** Part II will follow shortly.

**blodwen40** - Thanks much for the thoughtful review. That was a very astute observation, noting how James treats Nyx as a being in need of advice and guidance. I attribute that to the fact that he's the one spending the most time in her presence. It will become more apparent to the others as the story unfolds, and I hope you continue to take delight in reading it.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 1/27/08


	10. Follow The Screams Part II

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** Three snow days in a row. There's a happy accident.

Thanks to Wolf-Kin for favoriting the story.

Anywho, I had much fun writing Part II, introducing so many new minor elements. Enjoy.

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_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

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_Chapter Ten - Follow The Screams: Part II_

The party eventually spilled out onto the terrace at the manor's east wall. In comparison, while it came close, the Brigances' residence was not as grand as that of the Swanns'. Its view of the harbor not so vast, with the jungle pressing in from three sides, sitting up against a ridge above several other villas. What it lacked in a view to the distance was made up in the elaborate gardens sprawled across the front lawn, framed by hedges.

Teased by a light shower earlier in the day, the air was humid but not unbearable and full of floral scents. A half moon, though dampened by a light cloud cover, still cast a bright glow over the festivities, in addition to the ornate lanterns hung at various points about the yard. Much of the company had taken to sitting upon the stone benches and chairs scattered about the gardens, grateful to sit after enduring standing for so long, and the countless dances. The band inside ceased to halt playing, providing a pleasant backdrop of music to the overall conversation.

Choosing prose over poetry, Norrington found it easy to avoid most of the frivolous conversation, and stood apart from the rest whenever possible. He didn't count himself an excessive talker, saying no more than was needed to seem polite. Subsequently, he had noticed how the womenfolk were not imposing upon this peace, or throwing their daughters into his presence. Though grateful for the intermission, he found it strange: they had practically made a sport of that practice in the weeks before his promotion, despite his foundering courtship with Elizabeth.

In one of her best gowns, golden tan silk and embroidered with white lace, Miss Swann was as beautiful as ever, faring well with Mr. William Turner always at her elbow. The blacksmith, to his credit, had dressed acceptably and was holding his own in the presence of so many aristocrats. He answered any questions offered to him without delay or malice. Gauging by the way he never budged from Elizabeth's side, Norrington thought it safe to assume it was a cover that had so far persisted.

So removed from the latest gossip, though not necessarily sorry for that, Norrington found a way to pass the time: keeping a wandering eye on his military complement proved the best way to keep his mind off Nyx.

Miles Wright, with his wife and two sons in tow, was the central source of good humor, as always. The older guests gravitated toward their corner of the party, specifically the governor, Darrow, his cohort, and the elder Brigances.

The lieutenants were all in comparable circumstances: either isolated among their own kind, or divided from them with a pretty escort clinging to one arm. The Sinclair sisters were deftly pining for attention from a slightly red-faced Groves, who was doing his best to pay equal attention to both. Taylor took great amusement in watching this unfold, as in seeing his date, Ida Riley, in much the same state, hiding a smile behind her hand.

Judith Brigance had sought Sanderson out early on in the evening. They were the first pair to set foot on the dance floor, and had not parted ways since. For all his embarrassed silence on the issue, the Echeloner did not appear to dislike the attention.

Poor Lyle had the short end of the social stick. Following his uncle's lead, he had arrived in his best uniform, and been received graciously. But he had been able it to pay his respects to Judith just once, only to be rudely intercepted by his own father, and driven from his sibling's company. Miss Brigance, though delighted to be in the company of her lieutenant, made to protest this, falling quiet after being shot a venomous glance by her mother.

Helena Pendergast, a military advocate and also a witness to this quiet conflict, had kindly taken Lyle under her wing and initiated him into conversation with her husband and their son, Donald, second lieutenant of the _Echelon_.

The Commodore could not help feeling sorry for the boy. There was a form of empathy to identify with, between being orphaned and being cast out of one's family. All his immediate family were deceased, and any living relatives he had left were not close, emotionally or in locality. The happy redcoated messenger wasn't always so.

Norrington wandered about for a time, absently mulling over the various pairings, offering simple greetings to those he passed on the way. He was glad his compatriots were enjoying themselves. However, he couldn't deny the desire to isolate himself from watching all that happy fortune and good feeling.

One way or another, Elizabeth got what she wanted, even if it meant pressing Turner into attending, and to Norrington's hidden surprise, nothing came of it when he saw them arriving together. No stirrings of jealousy, no undertones of anger or disappointment. Seeing Elizabeth, the happiest he had ever seen her at one of these outings, had instantly placated them.

To some degree, he was glad for her, and content to leave it at that in mind. Now it was a matter of accepting it in spirit.

"Commodore. Fancy seeing you so far from the life of the party. Are you well?"

Bemused, Norrington turned to see a figure slouched on a nearby bench, one that he had not noticed before.

"No, Mr. Riley, I'm quite all right, but thank you for your concern."

Douglas Riley was not a local character, on level with the lowest of the rich. His share in the tobacco trade was smaller than most, and situated in the southernmost colonies of North America. Though darkly tanned and coming across as very solid, his manner was subdued and quiet. It had been for the last few months, since returning here to bury his wife where she had been born. With Darrow back in town, Riley's business with Robert Brigance took the place of second best.

Grasping at the first topic he could find, Norrington added, "Ida looks quite lovely tonight."

Riley half-smiled. "Thank you. It took a good deal of coaxing to persuade her to wear that dress, but when I finally mentioned your Lieutenant Taylor might be present..." He let it hang there, sipping from the wineglass in hand.

No real surprise there, save for the fact the charismatic lieutenant was actually becoming serious about his relationships. "I take it she holds him in high regard?"

"Well, she insists they are friends, although I'm slowly starting to believe otherwise. Sailors have always fascinated her." With a shrug and a distant look: "I think Wendy would have approved of that at any rate."

"That she would," Norrington said, making a small bow. "Please accept my continued condolences for your loss, sir."

"Thank you." Riley turned away and said no more.

Leaving the widower, Norrington found his way back to the terrace that had become more congested in his absence. Making some vague greetings, he stepped aside and belatedly sampled a few of the dishes laid out upon the tables, for lack of anything better to do. Most of it consisted of washed vegetables and sliced fruit, among them one somewhat tart piece of pineapple.

With his back to the crowd, he did not take notice of his new company before they spoke up.

"Ah, James, good to finally see you out and about. I trust you are better?"

A puzzled frown overrode the bothered grimace, before he abruptly recognized Weatherby Swann's voice, the turquoise frock coat, and plumed hat.

"Better, Governor?" Stalling, he hurriedly wiped his fingers clean.

"I heard you had taken up with that flu."

He finally grasped the hand offered to him and shook it. "In that case, you were misinformed, sir. I'm very well. Thank you."

The governor smiled a wise and knowing smile. "I thought so, but perhaps the _very_ is a slight overestimation. I couldn't help noticing you have been awfully withdrawn this night."

Ever aware of the third party ears that were no doubt listening in, Norrington mustered a very composed and wordy, "Affairs at Fort Charles have been somewhat... frenetic of late; they're tediously preoccupative. I pray you haven't perceived my ignorance as a deliberate sign of contempt."

"Not at all," Swann replied easily. "Be so good as to enlighten me, then: what are these affairs you speak of?"

_The man loves to hear himself talk,_ Norrington thought to himself, amused though grateful for the company of an old friend. Though not in the literal sense, disorder was present at the fort. Hanging in limbo on receiving a response from Kingston, there wasn't a lot to do but drill and paperwork. The governor seemed happy enough to be regaled with yet another account of the _Echelon_'s meeting with the _Seraphine_, and what had happened since. He certainly had an opinion for every little nuance of the story.

It carried on like that for a while.

"And this... Alouette fellow was thoughtful enough to finally relay the whereabouts of this second ship?"

"Not precisely. He has acknowledged there is a second one: the _Corentin_. As for a location, there's no way of telling without narrowing the possibilities of where she could be."

A servant meandered by, offering drinks. Swann took two from the tray, nodding his thanks.

"Do you intend to embark soon?"

"If Admiral O'Rourke is generous enough to part with the _Tarpeian_ and the _Mystic_," Norrington replied, accepting the wineglass. "Who knows? Should Fortuna smile on us, we could better locate the _Black Pearl_ in that course of action."

By courtesy of some sixth sense, he took note of the nearby flock that included Elizabeth. She was glancing surreptitiously back at him, looking attentive to more than Dolores Sinclair's current narrative.

Not irate, just attentive.

Had she heard that?

"That's not to say the _Pearl_ is the objective of the patrol, of course," he amended. "But you can understand what I imply."

"Oh, certainly. My only query is how do you intend - "

A shrill cry went up, untempered and loud, bringing an end to the music and Swann's query. Every head snapped toward the noise, bewildered mutterings the only sound. Groves and the others were already moving, hurrying into the gardens.

Following a short delay, in which he dreaded what this new rhubarb could be, Norrington bounded after them.

The attacker was lean and stout, and definately not human. No more than a meter in height, it was still able to pin its victim to the earth. The expanse of its flared wings made it seem bigger, as did the lashing tail. In the mixed glow of moon and lantern-light, the bright red skin looked darker, banded with black and yellow. The bared fangs shone red, poised to strike again.

Orville Sanderson was on the ground, a dark stain at his shoulder spreading across the fabric, down the sleeve. Though down, his sword was out. He swung in a wide arc, which the beast nimbly jumped back from before darting forward again.

His fears allayed by the sight of a wholly different animal than he expected, Norrington moved to check the lunge. The very tip of his sword scored a mark across the muzzle. Hissing, the animal reared back and brought a clawed paw to its face, covering the bleeding line. Two fan-like appendadges flared up from the back of the skull, the membranes bright yellow as the eyes.

_That got his attention._

"Groves, Taylor, get them back!"

With the attacker's retreat, Judith Brigance had run to Sanderson's aid, pressing a cloth to his wound. She continued to hold it there as Taylor went to the lieutenant's other side. Through their efforts, he was helped to his feet, half staggering as he was led away.

Groves, in bleak contrast, moved forward, drawing his sword and leveling it at the creature.

Now faced with two weapons, the assailant hung back, the hissing fading off to a rumbling growl. The wings slowly furled up against its back. In this calming state, more subtle differences in its conformation in became apparent: two talons to each foot, the red-gold hue of its throat, the ragged dewlap of black flesh beneath the jaw.

Blinking cat-like eyes, the pupils wide with ferver, it abruptly looked up the sloping lawn to the gathering crowd of onlookers. At the head of this crowd were the Brigances: Victoria hurried to embrace Judith protectively, and Robert helped Taylor guide Sanderson past them, toward the manor.

"Keep your distance!" Darrow was shouting over the din of murmuring voices, and working in tandem with Wright, Lyle, and Pendergast to keep the gap substantially open. "Give ground, please!"

The beast returned its focus to the two naval officers, looking past the blades at their owners' faces. A forked tongue sampled the air before its gaze shifted to the Commodore, suddenly intense and locked. The growling stopped as abruptly.

Meeting those eyes, Norrington felt a curious sense of déjà vu. This wasn't the same sort of mindless, animalistic glare of a rabid dog. The eyes held the same scruntinizing quality Nyx's held when confronted with anything new. The tongue snaked out through the apex of the jaws, flickering as it tested the breeze once more.

It gave a great, vicious snarl, stretching its wings wide in one great flare of motion. Flapping bodily, it reared onto its hind feet, slashing at the air with black talons.

All without breaking eye contact.

_It's bluffing,_ Logic supplied. After its initial strike, this animal, dragon, was on the defensive, putting on a show to intimidate its opponents. _But why is it directing the bluff at me?_

Intimidated enough by the volume of the throaty roar, some of the ranks of guests faltered, permeated by frightened screams - mostly those of the women - and scurried back. Startled by the flighty movements, most of their counterparts followed suit.

"You'll not be mauling anyone else!" Groves shouted at the beast, lunging forward with a bold slash. "Off you get!"

Sharp teeth snapped at the weapon, but the animal gave ground. It backed away deliberately, one step after the other, hissing. Then, at what it thought as a good distance, it turned and leapt aloft, laboring for altitude. Catching a breeze, it followed the slope down the drive, and then angled upwards into the sky.

Watching the serpentine figure slowly diminish into the western horizon, Norrington's mind felt weighted with dawning relief. Then the worry pressed in with its assault.

Okay. That dragon was not Nyx.

So where had it come from?

"What in God's creation was that?" Most guests saw fit to utter similar remarks, wide-eyed, chattering anxiously among themselves. Between the maze of hedges and flowerbeds, most of the fiasco must have gone partially unseen. They seemed to understand this wasn't the run-of-the-mill ambush made by a rogue criminal, at least.

Good for them.

Sheathing his sword, Norrington mused, _God? Try Satan. _He left it to Darrow, Wright, and Groves to settle the crowd. He brushed through them, oblivious to their queries for the moment, and hurried inside. Directed by the servants, he was steered to a spare guest room.

"I'm telling you, it's fine."

Like the seasoned officer he was, Sanderson protested over the scene being made. Seated on the bed, hat, wig, and coats off with his shirt pulled back, the wound looked less serious than it bled. A semi-circle of punctures marred his left shoulder, forming a ring of points. Two maids were at work mopping the crimson mess up, trying to get an unobscured look at the bite past the queue of blond hair: no easy task as the lieutenant tried to impede them.

"If that's what you call fine, Orv, I'm second cousin to a clam," Taylor was saying, trying to put a positive spin on the atmosphere. He stood at the foot of the bed, his complexion white with tension that belied his words. "You're damned lucky the thing didn't bite your arm off at the joint."

"There you are!" Robert Brigance, usually a granite-faced man, stood back, well away from the dirty work, looking ill with horrified wonder and anger. He did not hesitate to round on Norrington the moment the Commodore stepped inside. "Most valiant efforts, sir, intercepting that monstrosity. I'd congratulate you if it weren't for the one discrepancy: would you mind telling me just exactly _what_ it was?" His tone was sharp, with no hint of the usual pleasantries.

"Mr. Brigance, there's no telling anything yet," Norrington said automatically, meeting the glare. This wasn't the first time he had been confronted with an irate businessman who somehow thought the recent mishap was _his_ fault. "I can say is that I don't think it will be making a second attack on your estate tonight, and the damage its already managed to inflict is of greater concern at any rate. In that meantime, a modicum of civility on _your_ part would be nice."

Cowed by the gelid expression and the equally-icy words, Brigance's angered facade wavered. "Yes, Commodore. If there's anything you need..." He stepped back, giving leave to take command of the floor.

"Thank you." Regarding Sanderson, the glare softened only slightly. "Lieutenant, what happened?"

"I'm not sure, sir. Judith... er," He hastily looked away at this slip of the tongue and cleared his throat. "That is, Miss Brigance and I were only walking along at the yard's edge, and it was upon us."

"There was no warning?"

"None. I think it aimed to strike Miss Brigance, but I was betwixt them, and that's when it bit down."

"It bowled you right over?" Taylor murmured, still white.

"Sure as if a wave had hit me," Sanderson replied, reluctantly leaning forward to let the maids inspect his back. "I was facing the jungle when it pounced. Before it pinned me I managed to draw my sword, but - "

"What were you doing, going so close to the edge of the lawn?" Brigance's question was harsh and grating with suspicion.

"Mr. Brigance," Norrington snapped, warningly, as the door opened once more.

"Perhaps one of _you_ would give me a forward answer," Swann huffed, storming in with great drama. "What is all this fuss?"

Taylor glanced toward him, eyebrows furrowing. "You didn't see it, Governor?"

"No, I was to the back of the crowd. What was - " Swann fell silent seeing the lieutenant's bloodstreaked left arm. Never one who could tolerate to such sights, his eyes widened considerably. "Oh, goodness."

"It was an animal attack, sir," Norrington replied, with far more patience than he harbored for Brigance. "Lieutenant Sanderson and Miss Brigance were ambushed by a creature out of the jungle."

"A creature? Of what sort?"

"We don't know yet."

"You don't know yet," Brigance echoed, crossing his arms. "Commodore Norrington, you were within feet of the beast. Surely you can make an identification."

Norrington gritted his teeth and spoke through them. "For what I saw, yes, sir, but for what it _was_, I do not know." Like it or not, he could not berate the man for that truth.

One of the maids, who had both wisely tuned this debate out, beckoned to Taylor. "Lieutenant, your assistance, please?" Bewildered by the request, he dumbly complied, taking the lantern and holding it above and behind Sanderson, who had fallen silent with a forced, set expression as they probed and inspected the wound.

Brigance rambled on. "How could you not? Insofar as I know, there is no lizard within Jamaica the size of a boarhound, has the wings of a demon, and outwardly preys upon humans."

"Robert, you really must settle down. You forget there are a great deal of people out there just as confused as you are," Swann said, trying to soothe the other's misgivings. "Go to your family, tend to your daughter. See if she is all right, hm?"

It did the trick. With one last scathing look at the faces around him, Brigance stormed away.

Sanderson gave a pained gasp, breaking the awkward silence that loomed. "Don't do that!" he growled, reaching around to swat the hand away.

Taylor took no offense, too focused on the injury to be diswayed. "Sir, what do you make of this?"

Norrington circled around to look, Swann following with some reluctance. The bite was framed in red, testifying to how the beast had managed to seize the shoulder from the front and from behind. More worrisome were the two prominent punctures upon the scapula, of a larger caliber than the adjacent teeth, the flesh surrounding them slightly inflamed.

"It almost looks a..." the governor trailed off, uncertain. "It almost looks like a snake's bite."

"Sir?" Thoroughly surprised that it was Swann to offer an opinion, Norrington couldn't help staring in astonishment, an expression mirrored by Taylor, Sanderson, and the maids. "How would you guess that?"

"Oh, my parents once visited India when I as a lad. A storm forced our ship to put in at Bombay. While the sailors went ashore for supplies one of them had the misfortune to be bitten by a cobra. He died before they were able to transport him back to the ship. Curious thing that I was, I managed to sneak a look at the body before he was presented for his funeral." Still mystified by their incredulous stares, he went on, "But-but there are certainly no cobras in Jamaica. It shouldn't be possible, and even if it were, nothing big enough to fit its jaws over a man's shoulder."

"Send for a doctor," Taylor directed to one of the nurses, who nodded mutely and left.

"But I don't feel ill in the slightest," Sanderson piped up.

"I'd be more comforted by a professional's opinion, circumstances being what they are, Orv."

"Governor, what I saw most definitely wasn't a snake," Norrington insisted. "Are you sure?"

Swann bit his lip, thinking his answer over with care. "No, I'm not. You'd best wait for the doctor's word."

The doctor took his time getting there. By some fluke, Judith Brigance managed to make a visit, to the lieutenant's abashment. Through her and the remaining nurse, Meredith's, efforts Sanderson was considerably more cooperative. Still maintaining that he felt perfectly all right, he allowed the wound to be sponge washed and readily accepted when Judith encouraged him to take some water.

The remaining guests stepped outside to wait in the corridor. The governor bustled away, presumably to see what had become of Elizabeth, leaving the officers alone to contemplate the situation. A new quiet descended, disturbed only by the muffled voices from elsewhere in the manor.

"I don't like the looks of this, James," Taylor finally admitted, hat removed scratch to anxiously at his wig. He spared a glance for the door, assuring himself it was shut, and about, to scan for eavesdroppers. "You said Alouette confessed to there being only two dragon eggs."

Norrington knew that to be true, and had been pondering the claim ever since. "He did. I wasn't persuaded to believe him at the time, and I'm still not."

"Why? Isn't this positive proof he was being honest?"

"About the probability of dragons existing, yes. I even thought that ship in the alcove could have been the _Corentin_, but based on this instance, I don't think that's possible."

"How do you figure that?"

"Nyx isn't fully grown, nor was the one that bit Sanderson. And Nyx won't go anywhere without an escort. If the _Corentin_ did have an egg aboard, what would its product be doing launching a strike at a dinner party, all alone upon such an obscure target?"

Replacing his hat, Taylor looked both thoughtful and apprehensive of the ensuing conclusion. "It would mean that wasn't the same animal."

Norrington nodded, feeling just as grim. _Which would mean this problem could extend far beyond just the freak occurrence of two animals being imported from mainland Europe._

"I think we'd best have another talk with _Monsieur_ Alouette."

**TBC**

**Notes:** If Swann doesn't sound governornly enough - apologies.

Readers of _Temeraire_ will note the likeness between one introduced surname for an OC and the books. Just there are likenesses in the names Turner, Beckett, and Gibbs.

And the unnamed dragon introduced here is a product of my own imagination. His has no official breed within _Temeraire_ but it couldn't hurt to introduce some OCs based on that half. Bonus points to those who can pick out which animal was the real life inspiration for his design.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin1/30/08


	11. A Bird In The Hand

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** Another chapter that didn't exist in the original draft.

For fun, see if you can find the _Men In Black_ homage in here. Hint: unspoken.

Thanks to HakushoRurouni and Seekerfemmedraca for the story subscriptions.

-----

_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

-----

_Chapter Eleven - A Bird In The Hand_

Alouette was not surprised to have been called to a meeting, only slightly chagrined to have been drug from his cell at a little after midnight. After two weeks, he was accustomed to unexpected meetings, and thus far had always had a tidbit of information to offer for each. His contempt for La Claire was obvious, as the _Corentin_'s captain could not have been more opposite of Frèdèrick Rochefort. With nothing but time to lose, Alouette was all too happy to surrender any relevant data.

At the moment, though, he was bleary-eyed and uninterested in what Darrow had to say. Apathetic, too busy with scrutinizing the Commodore's dress uniform with a bemused frown, his sense of hearing seemed deafened to all the captain's niceties. Darrow's patience was already strung taut by worry for his flag lieutenant's health, and fraying strand by strand with receiving nothing but blatant disinterest in reply to his discreet queries.

Norrington intervened before his colleague's rarely-seen temper could surface. "In essence we need an opinion in identifying this creature, by someone with insight on the subject."

Alouette's eyebrows rose. "So you now believe me when I say there are dragons?" he asked, looking less exhausted.

"It's a little difficult not to in light of such a discovery," Darrow intoned, rigid with uncommon sarcasm.

Alouette spared the captain a half glance over his shoulder.

Norrington offered a similar look to the clock, noting the time. Robert Brigance had driven them away from his home, calling for some action to be taken, nearly two hours ago. Infuriated with the doctor, Callahan's, orders that Sanderson not move until any symptoms had arisen, he quickly seized the opportunity to send the most senior military men packing. Not wanting to add to the panic of the remaining guests, they had obediently cleared off.

By rule of thumb, the Commodore seldom interrogated prisoners in the confines of his office. Besides the inbred hate for the filth, he strove to instill a sense of intimidation in any interrogatee, no matter the room. Fort Charles was his home field, where he was the most confident save for the quarterdeck of the _Dauntless_. In most cases his domineering poise and stern glares were enough.

In dodging Alouette's claims about Nyx, though, he sorely needed the comfort of familiar surroundings.

"Just how much do you claim to know about dragons?"

With a shrug: "More than the average man, Commodore. I was ultimately responsible for the welfare of both the Fleur-de-Nuit and the Flamme-de-Gloire. _Capitaine_ Rochefort was knowledgeable enough to take me aboard during the brooding period."

_Flame of Glory_. Norrington fought not to roll his eyes at this translation, that anyone should find time to name the different variants. Was there some unseen underclass of pariahs who took it upon themselves to catalogue such things? How could a pirate deem to know so much?

Darrow snorted, marveling at other facts: the elaborateness of the scheme. Incredulous: "You are a scholar in the study of dragon-like creatures, then?"

"_Oui_, as close as one may come to it."

"Are there many more like you?"

Another shrug. "I would think so. If dragons were to be found in places other than Europe, there would be those who would study them."

"What you know is more than the rest of us put together," Norrington spoke up. Alouette crossed his arms and said nothing, prompting more dictation. "The law demands that something be done to protect the public. We would be most grateful for your expertise in resolving this."

"In exchange for what, may I ask?"

Norrington bit back a sigh. _Ever an extortionist. _"We could fashion a... persuasive recommendation to amend your sentence to a shorter term, in trade for whatever else you know about the _Corentin_." _As though having your own cell weren't enough._

Alouette scoffed, half-smiling between scarred lips. "You may make all the recommendations you want. My only concern is for the Fleur-de-Nuit. Relinquish her to my care and I will tell you all you wish to know."

"We would if we knew what it was you were talking about," Darrow growled, conveying the exasperation that his collaborator felt. "No such animal was taken into custody, in a shell or otherwise."

_How quickly you forget about the mysterious crate, Bax, when it became someone else's problem._

The stare between captain and prisoner did not last. Conceding, Alouette uncrossed his arms, laying the ironbound wrists upon the table. "You say this boy was bitten?"

At last, they were getting somewhere.

"Yes, earlier this evening."

"How badly?"

"It was enough to break the skin."

"And you say that it resembled a snake's bite?"

"There were puncture marks indicative of teeth that differed from the others."

The Frenchman was thoughtful, fisted hands now resting at his chin, silent as the officers waited with baited breath. "Rurusmic," he finally muttered.

A simultaneous: "Pardon?" That wasn't a French adjective.

"A Rurusmic is the only breed that could fit your description," Alouette declared, with mounting certainty. He rambled on, mostly to himself, as if refreshing his knowledge: "_Rouge_, with _noir_ and _juane_ striping. They are a very reclusive species, nocturnal; very little is known about their mannerisms. The _physiologie_ of dead specimens indicates they do not grow very large, but they are venomous, and feral by default."

"Feral?" Darrow repeated, stupefied by the plethora of information. "Do you mean to imply there are those that aren't?"

"_Oui_, there are those that can be tamed. Your associate should know."

"How venomous?" Norrington kept his gaze focused and stoic, not meeting Darrow's curious glance, nor letting Alouette's remark sway his thoughts.

For the first time, Alouette looked almost unsure, with an onus of doubt as he answered. "Oh, _très_. The poison works slowly, so its signs will not be observable for several hours after the bite, depending upon how much was injected. How lucid was the boy last you saw him?" Taking the captain to be the more concerned party, he turned to Darrow. "Slurring speech, trembling limbs, headaches?"

"None of those."

"Then it is early yet. Diagnosing the severity of the bite will not be possible until the symptoms manifest."

"Is there any antidote?"

"None that I know, _je suis désolée_."

Unconsoled by the note of sympathy, Commodore and captain exchanged a weighted look. There was no point in asking anything further. They had been presented with such grim predictions before. If the venom was that deadly there was nothing more to be said.

"What of the Rurusmic?" To his credit, Darrow managed to keep a composed air, though he did stride over to the balcony windows. "Is it likely to attack again?"

Alouette shook his head, turning to speak to the captain's back. "All dragons seek some measure of seclusion, some more than others. As I said, this breed is notoriously shy. The chances of it biting twice in the same night are nil."

_'Notoriously shy.' _Norrington frowned, eyebrows furrowing. This account did not apply to the creature he had seen going for Sanderson well after it had taken its first bite. "In the unlikely event it does return, what would you suggest?"

The prisoner shrugged yet again, his most common response to any question. "They are as mortal as you or I, Commodore: a pistol shot to the head would be enough."

The attack would be the talk of the colony by morning. News like that had a peculiar way of trickling down the grapevine to the lower castes. Spreading the word that it could be dispatched of like any other wild animal would calm the civilians' misgivings, before the story could be blown all out of proportion. They would be more given to protecting themselves than to go running to any Marine patrols for help.

"I expected this sort of reaction from you, _messieurs_, but I hope you will not ever consider coping with the Fleur-de-Nuit by similar means."

"Any creatures like this Rurusmic will be dealt with as is appropriate, whatever their ridiculous names may be, especially if it warrants execution." Darrow's tone was level. The tightening of the hands clenched behind him said otherwise.

Noticing this, Norrington rose from his seat, motioning to the pair of Marines that had waited at the door. It was best to end this discussion before it had another chance to escalate. Besides, other than a name they had learned nothing more than could have already been found out. "Thank you for your time, _Monsieur_ Alouette. I'll see to it that notice is submitted to the court right away."

_Perhaps a term of twenty years would sit better than thirty._

He waited until the guards had departed with their charge, after the door was shut, before speaking again. A sort of melancholy quiet descended on the room. "Baxter, I'm sorry." Darrow nodded tersely, gaze flickering as he continued to stare out into the bay. "There's still a chance Orville will recover. We could send for another doctor. Who is to say any of that was even true?"

"The animal was real enough, sir," Darrow snapped, habitually sticking to protocol in his distress. The officers of the _Echelon_, like those of several ships in the Navy, were tight-knit. Parted from their families on land, most took on a kind of brotherly mentality at sea. "What reason would Alouette have to lie?"

"To get under our skin, for starters," Norrington replied dryly. "What reason would he have to be truthful with us?"

"Why would he stick together so intricate an explanation if it weren't true? How many pirates do you know who spend ample amounts of time puzzling over such stories?"

Norrington blinked, momentarily stunted by that rebuke. "You believe all that business with the Fleur-de-Nuit, then?"

Darrow gave a forced sigh. "I don't know what to believe. Alouette could be right as much as he could be wrong. As of right now, he's all we have in the way of an informed explanation. Until something happens to negate my opinion, I'm going to trust someone who has an inkling of what he's talking about."

"Even if that man is a pirate?"

"You said it yourself: he knows more than we do."

Norrington managed not to gape, disguising his outright shock with a sharp look of befuddled disbelief. It was completely unlike Darrow to side with the lesser party. He had risen to his rank by playing the quiet, agreeable lieutenant, the follower, the go-along navigator with a taste for the wind. Even nowadays he was still lenient in issuing punishment. It was because of this that his lower crewmen were such pickpockets.

The look of heated resentment didn't linger. Clearing his throat, seeming to remember where he was, whom he was addressing, and the difference of rank, the _Echelon_'s captain straightened up. "I'll go... take the word up to the Brigances', and to Sanderson's family. Tell Wright to keep the guards on full alert. If I may, it'll give me something to do, sir."

"Very well, Captain." Salute, and return salute. "Dismissed."

The repose that ensued gave him time to think, completely alone for the first time in two weeks, without concern for anything other than how long to carry this charade. This in mind, the Commodore wandered out onto the balcony, preferring the warm, humid outside to the chilled air of the office. Hands laid flat on the stone railing, arms braced, he allowed his head to hang, drawing a deep breath to release in a sigh. Warily, he let his eyes fall shut.

The prognosis struck a chord of mutual understanding, leaving a feeling of unease deep in his gut. As an officer, Norrington knew from experience the prolonged agony of having to sit by and watch a comrade pass away, either from mortal wounds or the disease they gave way to, knowing there wasn't anything anyone could do about it. While he did not grieve Sanderson's fate directly, he felt pity for the lieutenant's associates.

He felt badly for Judith Brigance, despite the familiarital gap between them. Norrington was not acquainted with the details, nor had he made a point of prying into it. Still, it was impossible not to recognize the signs of a relationship from afar, as well as to not feel sympathy for her. If the affection was real, genuine, the person would be missed more than the uniform he wore. It wasn't even the doing of every Navy girl's fear: lost at sea.

A Rurusmic. As accustomed as he had become to Nyx's presence, the revelation of a whole other breed would take time to digest.

He couldn't keep lying, or denying, that he did not know. Ducking and dodging incriminating questions with blunt replies did not come naturally, and he was becoming sore of it, no matter how much that skill had developed in the last fourteen days. It was a proverbial slap in the face each time, a reminder of why he had always been an honest person: uttering the truth was less difficult, once said it was done. A lie ate and ate at one's conscience until it was too painful to ignore.

They wouldn't trust his denials for much longer, not if Alouette kept the persistent plea at the forefront, and his firmness in that undertaking would be tested to its limit.

The Commodore did not wish to be branded a liar.

But then, what of Nyx?

Norrington lifted his head and looked, scanning the starry night sky.

Nothing.

Was it fair to her? Revealing that information could very well compromise her safety, or any chance of her ever been assimilated into the open. Darrow's view of dragons could not be favorable, not now. The poison that would kill Sanderson would also pollute the populace's overall opinion. They would not accept her. They would be fearful. They would not listen to her case.

A Fleur-de-Nuit. A Rurusmic.

Two different species.

_People don't see the differences between what is to be feared and what is to be feared more greatly. It's all the same batch of monsters to them._

Elizabeth, Gillette, and Taylor immediately sprang to mind, to which the Commodore's conscience formed a simple moral equation.

A person. Smart.

People. Dumb, panicky animals.

Admittedly, he did not want to see Nyx harmed, and no longer just for the sake of protecting Elizabeth's affections. Though boisterous and loquacious, the dragon was a good personality at heart, only inquisitive in finding out about the world around her. Past the teeth and the claws was an individual capable of sentient thought and emotion.

She was predestined to get into trouble in her quest to explore. What child wasn't?

The military defined _menace_ in black-and-white. Norrington had sworn his allegiances to serving England, way back when he had been a midshipman, to protect her people from danger. It was his job to defend the subjects of the Crown. That was what he was good at, and an oath he intended to uphold to his death. Dragons fit the bill as something to be regarded as evil, and worthy of extermination: a shot to the head.

Nyx was not dangerous, only guilty of being born in the form she was, and murdering an unmourned chicken.

She deserved a chance, more than her fictional, hackneyed counterparts.

Which was his greater duty, to the soon-to-be-prejudiced people or to the innocent dragon?

Who deserved his loyalty?

Both, in a way.

He could not choose one for the other. That would be foolish. Picking the degree of untainted intellect over his race would not do. Humans were human. One could not blame them for being what they were, no more than one could blame a dragon for being a dragon. One may not like it.

The French had a phrase for that attitude.

_C'est la vie._

That's life.

If there's nothing one can do to change it, take it as it is.

Seeking a distraction from these dismal thoughts, Norrington busied himself with some menial projects: trading in the hat and coat components of his uniform for their less-brocaded equivalents, rolling up the map splayed on the desk, rifling through a few documents that had been underneath it, sweeping errant ashes back into the pit of the fireplace.

Remembering his sword after the fact, he unbuckled said article. Extracting the weapon from its scabbard, he laid both upon the desk for inspection. There was a faint smear, almost imperceptible, marring the stem edge of the tip. It had made a shallow cut on the Rurumisc's face easily enough. The scales at the face being thinner, no harm had been done to the inflicting edge. Peering close, he concluded with relief the blood was no less red than that of any other kind he had seen. With a spare rag he wiped it away.

There was no real need for sharpening. That grazing flick had done little to dull anything. Content, he sat down, with the smallsword balanced across his lap. With a finer cloth of velvet, he began the tedious process of polishing the silvery blade, forte to foible.

Absorbed in this work, he hardly batted a flinch to the quiet rap at the door. "Yes?"

"Lieutenant Gillette, to see you, sir."

Norrington kept his eyes trained on the sword. _About time._

"Send him in."

The door eased shut, a backdrop to the approaching footfalls. Polishing ceased, he looked up. His gaze stopped close to the floor, frowning at the sight of muddied shoes, bedraggled stockings. Glancing up the rest of the way, he saluted with his free hand. "I warned you about that."

Returning the motion, Andrew Gillette scoffed, unamused. He glanced down his jacket, at the dampened edges. "And I intended to heed it, sir. Nyx gave me little choice, carrying on like a stuck pig with a measly little prawn dangling from her lip."

Skeptic, the Commodore raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

The certainty faltered under that dubious look. "Well, no, not exactly. But she didn't budge until I had pried the accursed thing off, and she whined all the while."

Norrington smirked. It was so like the lieutenant to fret over a little mud, and to blow a story up to compensate for his distress. Besides, he didn't know Nyx to whimper like some nettling young lady. After the first few experiences she had toughened up. "Have a seat. I'll send for tea in a short while."

"Thank you, sir." Funny how that offer had the ability to pacify even the sourest mood.

Nyx eventually made her grand entrance, a dark shadow swooping down to perch at the railing. Wings furling, she slinked in through the open balcony doors like some gargoyle come to life. She trotted to her well-established post behind the desk, nuzzling against Norrington's arm in greeting. "_Bonsoir, James. How was - _" Here, her eyes did not miss the set of gleaming china. "_What's this, coffee?_"

"Tea, actually. Not the best there is, I'm sorry to say."

"_May I try some?_"

Norrington looked at her. It was a strange request, though not unusual in the dragonet's penchant to investigate something new. It wouldn't hurt her: a few added spices in addition to plain water?

Gillette stared in arrant wonder, watching his commanding officer pour a small measure, and as the dragonet sipped delicately from the filled saucer, hunched over the desk's edge. Shaking his head, the lieutenant focused instead on stirring sugar into his own drink, muttering "_Très bizarre,_" under his breath. The mannerisms his friend was so familiar with took some getting used to.

Nyx didn't care to notice. "_It's very good,_" she professed, draining the last, licking her chops in satisfaction. "_Where do you get it?_"

"Local suppliers, who in turn import it from more distant lands."

"_Oh._" She scratched at the greater platter with one finger-sized claw, clearly having hoped for a more detailed response than that. Her attention shifted again, this time to the nearby rag, which she sniffed at with a critical look. With the same claw, she carefully hooked the cloth and pulled it back with her to the floor.

"So, James, how did the occasion fare?" Gillette's tone was dreary and unenthusiastic. Killing the time. "Was it truly horrible?"

Norrington held the smallsword at eye level, sighting down the fuller. His mind detached from what it was looking at, not seeing the now-buffed shine as expertly done. What to tell now, what to tell later, without Nyx present. "In some aspects," he replied, distracted. "Groves and Taylor were hounded at every turn, if that's what you mean."

His mouth quirked up in sadistic mirth, Gillette insisted, "Not at all. I only wondered in the general sense." For all his gripes about playing nursemaid, evading an evening with the Sinclairs was a godsend.

"Funny how I'm loath to believe that."

"You wouldn't be so impartial if it were you they favored."

"_James_," Nyx spoke up from where she crouched over the rag. "_This smells funny._"

Norrington glanced down, a motion now borne by worry. He saw it: the same rag used to wipe up the trace of the Rurusmic.

Only someone with acute, superhuman senses would peg the purpose of its last use. "Does it?" _Simple. Keep it simple. _"How?"

"_Yes. It smells like blood._"

From easygoing and smug, Gillette's expression slowly went rigid, apprehension and suspicion coming to the fore. Abruptly, he set his teacup down.

Nyx's accusing eyes pierced the stillness that fell. "_Did something happen?_"

_Won't play the liar. Can't play the denier._

Norrington bit back a sigh, saving the exhalation for later.

"Yes."

"_What?_"

**TBC**

**Notes:** From here on out, I plan to try getting one chapter released per week.

**Dread-Pirate-Kidd** - Thank you for reviewing, and I'm glad you're enjoying the story so much. I have a fondness for writing and reading stories in which the characters aren't given a clear-cut plan from start to finish. It's much more fun if they don't know what's on the road ahead of them.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 2/7/08


	12. Caribbean Cribs

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** Anyone who's ever heard of MTV can see the chapter title connection here.

Had a good time writing this little intro, showing off a little nautical knowledge. I'm learning.

I was laughing as I wrote Murtogg and Mullroy's little cameo appearance, proof positive that those two can argue over anything.

--

_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

--

_Chapter Twelve - Caribbean Cribs_

The heat was stifling, even by local standards, with just the barest hint of wind. The sea was at a dead calm. It had been an odd sight, seeing the _Maverick_ towed into the bay by longboats. Norrington had suspected some damage at first, only to have that theory disproved when he saw the barquentine tied up at her sister, the _Echelon_'s, opposite side. The sails and rigging were in pristine shape. The weather had turned uncooperative at the last moment, forcing Galvio to resort to the aforementioned method.

The state of the area about the sternpost was another story.

This was what had them balancing on three of those same longboats, hands planted for purchase on the hull, watching as the young mid, Lennox, swam and pointed out the gashes. It was an envious task, no doubt, for the officers to have to endure.

Norrington ignored the sweat soaking his neckcloth, the uncomfortable warmth trapped by layers of wool, and paid attention, for he was genuinely perturbed by this find. The older captain had no flare for the dramatic. He would not subject them to such torture if he was not concerned. He had a right to be: the damage to the planks was peculiar, though not debilitating. Furrows streaked the salted boards.

Galvio had insisted they had not run aground, and Lennox had reported seeing no more than the usual barnacles along the keel.

"Didn't the captain say they encounter a privateer?" Groves spoke up, tossing possibilities out for consideration.

"Any shots were taken at the bow or portside gunwales, Theo," Gillette called back from his and Taylor's boat. "Nothing was directed at the stern. They weren't aware of any of this 'til last evening."

The Commodore tilted his head, barely enough to peer upward, past the brim of his tricorne, at the audience watching from overhead. Henry Galvio bent over the taffarel, watching all with his neutral, impassive look. Fritz stood at the captain's elbow, hawkish in manner and appearance. The most curious of the deckhands pressed in to either side of them, leaning over for a look.

Darrow was intrigued, moreso than his new first, Pendergast. Closest to the furrows, the Echeloner thoughtfully inspected the worst of them, with Lennox on duty to point out the most intriguing. Some had sunk deep, enough for the boy to slide his whole hand into the gap.

"What else could it have been, then?"

Gillette laughed an aloof laugh. "The word on the boat is sea serpents."

A chorus of murmurs above them answered this exclamation.

"But even that doesn't explain the scorching."

Beneath the row of stern windows, the wood had been blackened. Some time ago, if the crust of salt that had adhered to the fraying fibers was any yardstick. The pitch between the boards looked to have been burned away, charred by extreme heat.

"No one I have spoken to has an inkling to offer," Galvio reported, once they had climbed their way back aboard. "They don't recall seeing or hearing of anything that would cause such a mark, either."

_How much would they refrain from revealing if they did not wish you to think them daft_ was what Norrington wondered. Personally, he did not care for Galvio. The Maverickian was old Royal Navy material through-and-through, and ran his ship on a combination fear and browbeating, a dying breed on this side of the Atlantic. His handsome features belied his inner workings, so gelid they made his superior's worst glares look thawed.

Professionally, there was no getting around it. Galvio and Darrow had been a tag-team pair of reconnaissance captains in the days before the Caribbean squad had been formed. The recommendations had been made by Maynard Westbrook, the current Commodore's predecessor. One couldn't be counted on without the other.

Taylor shrugged. "Some prank gone awry, maybe?"

Wolfgang Fritz was quiet, and, when it came to conversation, laconic at best. The major's Austrian ancestry put him aside more than Gillette's French blood. His severity to match Galvio's uncompromising ways made for a harsh irony against the _Maverick_'s cheery crew. "Major Fritzy" was never called as such to his face. The alias was always uttered amid nervous laughter.

Perhaps the _unknown to man_ factor temporarily annulled the silent nature. "It is impossible. No soul would have ventured to engage in such a dastardly ploy."

_No soul aboard_ this _ship, anyway._

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely."

"I'll review my logs," Galvio offered. "See if there's anything that has slipped our collective minds or been overlooked."

The meeting disbanded soon after. The crew began to busy themselves with the removal of empty boxes and barrels, cleaning house. The vague lieutenants milled about, tailed by midshipmen, both ranks keeping their eye open, taking tally of what ammunition needed to be brought down from the garrison and whatnot.

Norrington watched this activity for a spell, hoping the captain's search would prove fruitful, before he willed himself not to stay any longer. It wasn't his place to be here gawking, no more than did he wish to develop a case of sunstroke. Bidding his farewells, crossing the _Echelon_ amidships, he retreated to the shaded alcove beneath the pier's upper level.

He hadn't counted on his lieutenants following. In hindsight, he realized having not given them word to do anything else.

Nonetheless, they looked unconsciously grateful for the respite, in addition to being away from the _Maverick_. Shielded against the sun and cooled by the moisture, this little Heaven on Earth was worth tagging along for.

"I take it ol' Henry wasn't ever one for great speculation, was he?" Taylor lamented, good humor restored, the least familiar with Galvio.

Gillette removed his hat and waved it lazily as though it were a lady's fan. "He doesn't care to dwell on what isn't in his control, no more than the rest of us," he replied. His contempt for the man was clear, ranking on par with his dislike of Wright and, in envitably, Fritz.

A fleeting, mirthless smile crossed Groves' face by way of agreement, tactfully not saying anything.

"If he is so awful than why is he part of the squadron?"

"The admiral won't entertain a request to replace a captain with over a decade's experience," Norrington explained tiredly. A week had passed, and with it came the response, carrying the very news he had dreaded receiving: O'Rourke hadn't worded much of a reply to the Commodore's report; only his intention to visit to Port Royal was made abundantly clear. If he had made sail the same day as he sent the letter, the admiral would be arriving sometime in the next two days.

Five days had gone by since the Rurusmic's attack, and the local taverns were still rife with talk and rumor as to the nature of the beast, with guesswork as to what had become of Orville Sanderson. Society's polite chatter made reference to both matters in passing, with as little dismay; the bluebloods more concerned with their own interests than what siege the colony was supposedly under.

After hearing of this, the chances of O'Rourke would lend two ships would be even nearer to nil.

The mysterious circumstances surrounding a flag lieutenant's death would bring an investigation down.

Norrington had yet to think of how to sufficiently explain Isla de Muerta, let alone what had happened since then. Any competent mind would surely think him mad for concocting such absurdities. Would it be better to downplay the latest matter, a spider bite versus a dragon's?

Dragon.

The Commodore was suddenly reminded of Nyx, and the newest quandary she was presenting.

Hopefully she would go along with the plan that he already had in mind.

--

Realizing the direction he strode off in was different, Nyx banked around sharply with a startled chirp. "_Where are you going?_" She swooped low, coming down into a trotting landing from behind. "_This isn't the way back to the fort._"

The same wind that her wings kicked up, so miniscule at first, now rattled nearby store signs, splitting the quiet with their rattling hinges. Loose dirt and bits of straw were whipped about into a small frenzy. Wincing in sympathy at this great racket, Norrington said nothing, quickly beckoning with a hand to duck into a nearby alley. These ventures to the docks had become more and more precarious with each passing night.

"You won't be staying at Fort Charles any longer," Norrington explained, mutedly, once silence had settled again. The cul-de-sac did not reach very far back, stuffed with all manner of awful clutter, and stunk of garbage; all the same, it was preferable to standing out in the open. "I'm leading you to a new place where you can safely spend the daylight hours."

Despite her continued willingness to obey, Nyx, having doubled in every measurement in the last week, was no longer so easy to hide. Her skin had – though Norrington had not thought it possible - darkened, developing patterns of black striping that rendered her even more difficult to place from shadows. Stem to stern she was nearly the length of a small longboat. She cocked her head and stared uncomprehendingly with eyes that were now level with his. "_Where is this place?_"

"A little ways to the east; at the edge of the town there are some old stables on a lot of property that, last I knew of, hasn't been tended in five years. It's a fair distance from the road; I don't think anyone would be curious enough to bother you there."

"_Why?_"

"Look at yourself." Not expecting her to take that order literally, Norrington paused momentarily before going on, "You are outgrowing your hiding space. After that mishap at the balcony, you cannot argue with how close you came to being seen."

The guards present at the time hadn't even waited until he was out of earshot before commenting upon it.

"_I'm tellin' you, I saw something there._"

"_And I'm tellin' you that you didn't see what you thought you saw. Look what hour it is. Now consider you haven't had a wink of sleep in the last twenty._"

"_Oh, so you're sayin' I imagined seeing that piece of stone, the same one that seemed to fall out of nowhere, nearly whack you on the noggin?_"

"_I'd think I would notice for myself if somethin' had done that._"

"_What's that there, then?_"

"_That is a rock that has been sittin' there, mindin' its own business, and has not moved since we were assigned to this spot._"

"_How would you know? Were you watchin' the rock when you should have been watchin' for intruders?_"

"_O'course not. I only know it hasn't 'cause I've seen it there before._"

"_Since when did you start notin' the position of rocks about the fort?_"

It had gone on like that for a while. Just inside the entrance, Norrington listened only for the fear that they might act to examine the matter. When this failed to happen, tense anxiety slowly degraded to incredulous exasperation. The Commodore continued on his way, leaving the sergeants to their repartee. The stone in question had later turned out to be a sizable piece of balcony railing, dislodged by the force of Nyx's gripping claws unintentionally prying it loose.

Looking back on it there wasn't a lot to worry over, being dismissed as a freak occurrence that would quickly be forgotten. Still, it was a near-catastrophe Norrington would rather not see repeated, not if it could be helped.

"_How far is 'a little ways'?_"

"By foot, it is probably a two hour walk, round trip. You could make the flight in less than half that time - now, don't start into that again."

Nyx froze. One foreleg had bent at the elbow, shoulders canted to the side, holding a corresponding wing up out of the way. Her face was sheepish, though still hopeful. She had first adopted the behavior a few nights earlier, on the suggestion that flight would be a better travel method for both parties.

Norrington had been leery of the idea from the start. He thought to boot with whether or not it was convenient for him. In his mind, something as unlikely as air travel was destined to be like man and the sea: if humans had been meant for it, it would be without risk.

"My opinion hasn't changed. Once a harness has been constructed, _maybe_ that will become an option. No. I will walk, you will fly."

Wings flexing uneasily, the dragon straightened up, and then sat back on her haunches. The bashful look gave way to concern. "_But what of the Rurusmic?_" In addition to the promise of being taught more about Port Royal society, she had gotten all the details of the attack.

Norrington sighed. There was that again. "I've told you, there is nothing to worry about," he explained. "It hasn't been seen since, and Wright's patrols haven't turned up any signs. Most likely it's moved on and won't be coming back."

Her nervous fidgeting gradually stilled. The stocky neck dipped in understanding. "_Two hours?_" she finally muttered.

"About."

"_Have you told Elizabeth and the lieutenants?_"

Norrington hesitated. Nyx's blanket of concern now encompassed all four humans equally, no matter what their attendance was. The story of the Rurusmic gave her ample reason to worry as much for them as they did for her. Forging a new, revised accord was in order. He hadn't come to the decision lightly. It would simplify matters, distancing her from them.

"They're aware of the situation."

"_Yes or no, James._" Her tone went terse with alarm. It was uncanny, how her ability to sense evasion had grown so sharp. "_Did you tell them?_"

_Must not lie._

"No. I didn't."

"_Why?_"

"Because, quite frankly, Nyx, they need not concern themselves so much with your safety. To continue to burden them by such secrecy is not practical. Your egg was taken from an enemy ship in a militaristic action carried out by the Royal Navy. Ultimately, when the _Echelon_ came back, you became my responsibility." Norrington paused there, anticipating a full fury of heated questions. "You will still be able to see them, but only when the right factors allow it."

Her expression was more meditative than reproachful, and she didn't seem to have heard the latter remark. "_Is that what I am to them, a burden?_" Discontent, her tail curled, cat-like, about her feet.

"An obligation would be closer to the truth. They will understand if this is done in the interests of keeping you safe. If the wrong people were to learn of you, it would prove disastrous for all those involved."

The glowing white eyes narrowed questioningly. "_How? What's the worst that could happen?_"

For all her acquired knowledge of military code and civilian jurisprudence, she could be frustratingly sanguine at times. Norrington clenched his fists, praying for patience. "The worst would result in your undue death sentence. Besides that, negligence of any sort is liable to prosecution and punishment. Gillette and Taylor could lose their commissions. Miss Swann's reputation would be irrevocably damaged."

"_All of that is feasible, for simply knowing about me?_" Nyx's eyes went wide with shock. Three weeks old, and it had finally clicked. She stood up, tail lashing out in agitation. "_That's ridiculous! I'm no threat, and none of you have done anything wrong._"

"Except keep you from their awareness. In this society, that's enough cause to warrant persecution."

"_That doesn't make it any less ridiculous._"

"That's how it is."

Slowly, she eased back down into a sit, eyes distant and thinking.

"_What if I were to explain my side to them?_"

Norrington laughed softly, a short bark of bitter disbelief. "After all that bother with the Rurusmic, I doubt they would listen."

"_Would they listen to you?_"

"I'm one of the guilty parties, remember?"

Nyx bared her teeth, glistening and serrated, hissing quietly in her best imitation of a sigh. "_Then who will they listen to?_"

This was more than he had wanted to divulge at. At the same time, he had known there was a chance of her not going along without a protest. Yielding, Norrington sat down upon the nearest crate, leaned forward, and placed his chin in one palm. They wouldn't be going anywhere until she had an answer.

Five quite minutes lapsed by.

"The only individual I can think of who wouldn't know better is the governor."

"_Elizabeth's father?_"

"He has no firsthand knowledge of you, or the Rurusmic. As someone who only knows what he's been told there may be a chance of taking your case to him successfully." _Then again, he's the highest ranking political figure present here, and governors answer to the King._

"_How do you think he would receive me?_"

_In person?_

"He would collapse from fright," Norrington stated flatly. "Reasonable though the man is, he is also somewhat faint of heart when it comes to the supernatural."

"_Would he listen to you?_"

"He may, if I come up with a means of convincing him none of it is a lie."

"_Will you?_"

"In time, Nyx," Norrington asserted, taking notice of the festering eagerness in those two words. "When the time is right, I'll reveal the matter. You have been very patient to have made it to this juncture, and I thank you for that. However, I'm going to kindly ask that you please continue to wait, all right? I won't risk an admission unless your safety can be absolutely guaranteed. "

She was listening, with that unwavering stare, in her studious way.

"_Promise?_"

"I promise."

With that discussion put to rest, Nyx took off and flew, circling overhead, merging seamlessly with the black abyss of sky. Norrington had learned not to try looking for a profile once she was aloft. So he listened, and hearing the passing gusts of wind surge by was enough to assure him she wasn't straying back toward the west.

He had considered warning her about the inevitable move, but in a while he thought she would have, in her logical mind, anticipated it. His office wouldn't always be a viable bolt hole, especially not for someone who could grow to be the size of a brig; dragons weren't known as creatures of legend for being small.

The old stables weren't visible from the road, and well on their way to being reclaimed by the jungle. While in disrepair with its fallen-in roof, the loft remained. It would be sufficient in keeping Nyx out of the rain. Gutting most of the debris, tearing down the walls of the individual stalls, there would be enough room for her to cultivate a den. The semi-overgrown paddock on the far side, with its open space through the cover of trees, would serve as an acceptable landing site.

He wasn't worried about its degree of exposure to the elements. If Nyx was any textbook example of her kind, dragons were hardy, outdoor creatures. They could stand a little rough weather. A little thunderstorm further inland paled in comparison to the gales that had been known to ravage Port Royal every few months.

The peninsula the town crested was thin and narrow, nearly ten kilometers in length, covered with rainforest. One dirt road had been carved through the center. Save for scatterings of native villages along the route, it was uninhabited. It was an ideal place to hide, an outpost that once housed the equines of some private, middle class family that had since left Port Royal.

How Nyx was able to spot the gap in the canopy, Norrington did not know. Her eyesight was the superior here. He made his way up the nearly-vanished rive, stepping over fallen logs, as he saw the dragon touch down in the open space beyond. The surrounding tree trunks leaned away from the wind, but did not bend. She stepped awkwardly, unfamiliar with the sort of terra firma beneath her feet: dark, rich dirt, lumpish and foreign after three weeks of sand and stone. There was no fence to speak off. Skeletal posts ringed the circumference of the clearing, their connections long since rotted and fallen away.

"_This place is strange,_" she observed, ducking beneath the lowest branches as she crept over to the dilapidated structure, creased and broken with an infestation of vines. She prodded the closest wall with her blunted snout, dubious as it creaked ominously. Pressing harder, several planks caved in, opening up a way of entry, thumping to the ground with a muted crash. "_Do you really wish me to stay here?_"

"It's not... so bad," Norrington managed, striving for optimism. The state of decay was worse than he had thought it would be. "As I said, no one would think to find someone like you here, and it's only during the daytime."

Unable to see a few inches past his nose, Norrington hold back at the wall and watched her inspect the interior. For a while, she was quiet, nudging and sniffing at everything within reach, her candescent eyes giving off enough light to make a preliminary examination. The floor was mostly soil, strewn with organic filth. Solid, cylindrical posts continued to support both the loft and the collapsed timbers of its roof, twenty feet overhead, and were in acceptable shape. Many boards of the stalls were moldy and flimsy, a putrid mix of brown and green. Nyx pushed several of the waist-high walls over, clearing more space, and drug the remnants to the nearest window to toss outside.

Standing back to observe her handiwork: "_Are you sure about this?_"

"It's shelter, one way or the other. I don't fancy the idea of you being without cover."

Salvation from a negative verdict came in the form of one exceptionally large rat. Shrieking, it sprang out from behind a recently fallen board, bolting for the door. Rather than jump away, Nyx darted for it, flattening the rodent with one foot, making one sharp bite to the neck. With a twisting motion of her jaws and a sickening, wet crackle, she severed the upper half.

The Commodore turned away, slightly nauseated. He had seen worse, yes, even grislier injuries in his time. As was watching the dragon, whom he knew to be so eloquent and intelligent, feast on butchered meat was one thing. Seeing her kill was considerably more gruesome, disturbing in the mental sense.

Gulping the rest down, Nyx grinned at him with reddened teeth. "_It will do._"

Sold.

Motivated by the new prospect of food, she looked around with newfound enthusiasm, a shadow with white eyes bobbing about in the dark. No stone was left unturned. Finding one corner to her liking, she scraped away most of the fallen litter there, piling it up against the walls, clearing a space. Her efforts uncovered another fat prize, which she chewed noisily before swallowing.

Norrington wasn't so charmed. He stood aside and focused on breathing through his mouth, listening to the drone of nighttime bugs all around. The humidity was palpably warm, and suffocating, reeking heavily of vegetation. Accustomed to the cool, salty breezes at sea, every sense rebelled against this feeling. Swatting ineffectively at the occasional mosquito whining past his ear was no pleasant experience, either.

"Shall I leave you to it, then?" The walk here wouldn't be any shorter than the walk back to the colony. He had planned to return to Fort Charles before midnight.

"_You're not staying?_"

_No longer than necessary._ "You may follow me back if you wish, but only to the edge of town."

She followed: on foot, much to his exasperation. Perhaps sensing this, she trailed in his wake, on the road's shoulder.

"_Is anything else going to change?_"

"How do you mean?"

"_The docks - will I still be able to eat there?_"

"Continue to practice discretion, and I don't see why you may not. Know that I might be somewhat... incapacitated in this upcoming week, though. I won't be able to attend one or two occasions."

"_Why's that?_"

"Port Royal will be expecting some visitors to arrive within the next few days."

"_And? There have been visitors before._"

"One of these visitors happens to be a rear-admiral," Norrington stated, matter-of-factly. The white glow shifted as Nyx turned to stare at him. "You recall what that is?"

"_Your superior?_" In her simplified way, Nyx wasn't given to any names in her lessons on the Navy. "_Why is he coming?_"

"He means to discuss a few important cases in person. It has been some time since he last got a favorable reason to leave Kingston. Beyond that, I don't know the nature of his motives to call a meeting."

"_What cases does he wish to talk about?_"

"Past incidents that have not yet been resolved."

Reading between the lines, Nyx ducked her head abashedly. "_Nothing I need concern myself with, right?_" She was of the impression not to question for facts, confidential only to those in military service.

"Correct."

"_How long will he be staying?_"

"That remains to be seen."

"_Are you looking forward to his coming here?_"

Norrington paused, considering a response. He couldn't give away too much. "He's a strict man. That is what makes him such an astute leader, I'd say, but even if there's an sense of command we are both experienced with, we don't share all the same ideals. I suppose I'll endure it."

"_Ah._"

A contemplative silence fell, broken only by the thump of their trodding feet.

"_Would an admiral listen if you were to tell him of me?_"

Persistent, she was.

"That would depend greatly on the order of events, my friend. If I were to broach the subject before he was told of the Rurusmic, he might be given reason to think it over."

"_Could you?_"

"I'm afraid not. This visit is one in the matter of naval affairs. I regret to say any story regarding you must take a secondary seat in the proceedings."

Nyx stared, distraught. "_By then it would be too late, though._" She sidestepped around, planting herself on the road in front of him. "_Considering the chain of command, being so close in rank, you could talk to him and he would be duty-bound to listen._"

Norrington stopped, looking her square in the face (for looking her in the eyes was painfully akin to staring directly at the sun). Her lack for patience wasn't what his mind grumbled at, while at the same time identifying this as not that flaw.

This was eagerness. A desire to disprove all those preconceived theories. To have a say in the something that so defiled a reputation.

How frustrating it must be: knowing there were those polluting one's reputation and there was nothing to be done about it without endangering oneself.

"I'm sorry, Nyx. For now, I am obligated to stick to the protocol that defines my title. Doing or saying otherwise with garner too much suspicion. Please, when the timing is right, I promise I will discuss your situation with the governor. But that can only take place when the chance best serves you. You won't have to hide forever, that is the truth. You will do nothing to compromise that chance, not until I say otherwise, or else you _will_ find yourself forever banished to a life of hiding in the dark."

To hell with sentimentality. Reality may bite, but it was how one took it that determined much it smarted. How many times must it be stipulated?

"Was that understood?"

Though her head had ducked low, not unlike that of a rebuked cabin boy, Nyx's eyes were thoughtful and far off, seeing the logic.

A few minutes ticked by before she offered a very heavily accented: "Aye."

**TBC**

**Notes:** The chapters to follow will involve some heightened level of military presence. I know. Big surprise there. Oh, and there will be a touch of _Law & Order_ mixed in, for flavor. My other PotC story, _Takes One To Know One_, the one that's been in the works for about four months, won't be being posted. Instead I'll be meshing elements from TOTKO into this one.

**JaxLass** - I'm glad you find this interesting enough to warrant a look at the _Temeraire_ series. In essence, _Bête Noire_ is similar to the first book in the series, _His Majesty's Dragon_. It's more of an introductory tale, paving the way for a future story involving more of Novik's 19th century universe.

**blodwen40** - You spotted it. After finding out that ILM did the visual effects for both films, I thought it an appropriate little snippet of logic to stick in the midst of all that. I'm glad you're finding the story suspenseful - that would be the third most influential genre here, I'd say.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 2/14/08


	13. Sins Of The Father

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** Thanks to Riane2006 and NinjaMoogle for subscribing.

Props to anyone who can guess which actor O'Rourke is modeled after. Clues: he has had roles in movies such as _Outbreak_, _A Time To Kill_, _Lord Of War_, and _Reign Over Me_.

--

_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

--

_Chapter Thirteen - Sins Of The Father_

Describe the commandeering of the _Interceptor_. Recount the events of Isla de Muerta.

Both of which were easier said than done. Compellingly, that was.

So far, Norrington thought, everything else had gone to plan very nicely. The frigate H.M.S. _Formidable_ and her dual escorts had arrived shortly after daybreak. Their commanding officers had been received with no more than the usual flair and fuss. Governor Swann and Major Fritz had paid their customary visitations and respects.

This committee was explicitly maritime-minded. Politics of the island and affairs of the Royal Marines had no relevance here.

For his part, Joseph O'Rourke had looked disinterested, disapproving, and, in short, bored with all of it. Pale blue eyes and severe, sharp features erased all doubt that he was anything but serious. His uniform was grand and intricately designed, epaulettes and all, seeming to be more gold than blue. His unusual tri-wing wig matched an upper lip obscured by a bushy white mustache. Leaning back in his chair at the far side of the table, he gave off an air of estranged tension. He had remained silent, save for the introductions, and settled for listening to various others chew over the facts.

Between the two ends, arranged on opposite seats, sat their assorted company.

Gillette. Darrow and Pendergast. Galvio and Randolph.

The new arrivals, Greene, Lincoln, and Ridgeway, captains all, appeared nearly as disillusioned as the admiral. Though they looked on with rapt attention, from the nature of their silence it was clear they were growing weary of Gillette's version of events.

The _ennui_, or meeting, was close to passing the two-hour mark, set late in the afternoon. They had already been told everything they did, or did not wish, want to know regarding what was happening in Port Royal. Up until the _Interceptor_.

Quiet as his superior, studious of the newcomers, Norrington found himself reminded of past illustrations he had seen, depictions of Parliament, of rivals squaring off for a debate. He winced inwardly, at realizing the haphazard way with how they had been seated. A round table would have been more apt here.

"Before you begin, I feel I must remind you everyone present here is familiar with the _Saga_, Lieutenant," O'Rourke finally sat forward, as Gillette was about to venture unto another not-so-recent account of sea battle. "Word of it has spread all across Jamaica. Commodore Westbrook, God rest his soul, was a fine sailor and a dreadful loss to His Majesty's service. However, that is not the reason why we have made the voyage here, and I was hoping our new Commodore would waste no time in telling us for himself exactly why it is the _Interceptor_, the survivor of said tale, is not resting dockside."

The biting choice of words was enough to wither Gillette into an abashed silence, and to prompt sidelong glances from the trio of newcome captains. This was what they had come to learn about.

Norrington studied the admiral's face, finding his own countenance was neutral to match. It would be foolish not to note their knowledge of one another was strictly professional. Idol or no, it was clear that O'Rourke was still puzzling over the Admiralty's ruling, naming such a young post-captain as Maynard Westbrook's successor. And so quickly: the former Commodore had passed on not two months before, and the one known to pirates called The Scourge had already risen to take his place.

Placidly, he read O'Rourke's hostility for what it spoke of: doubt, and unconvinced that the Admiralty's choice was the right one to begin with, and made even less so by this most peculiar campaign.

There would be no evading the subject.

With this goal firmly in mind, Norrington explained. Beginning with Miss Elizabeth Swann's unfortunate tumble from the battlements (the circumstances of which he glossed over in generic detail) and leading on to one Jack Sparrow's near-escape and incarceration, omitting nothing and laying bare all that he had seen with his own two eyes. How the _Black Pearl_ set upon the town in the dead of night, and how Miss Swann's subsequent capture sparked the beginnings of a search. With more precision, he conveyed the story of how Sparrow and Turner had found their way onto the _Dauntless_, driven her skeleton crew off, and how he had responded accordingly, only to have the wily fugitives jump ship and make off with the smaller brig.

The following editions came quickly: taking the flagship _Dauntless_ to sea, for the dual purposes of seeking out pirates and/or commandeerers, how both were somewhat accomplished in the recovering of Sparrow and Miss Swann at a rumrunner's abandoned cache, only to learn of the fiery demise the Navy's fastest ship had met.

The trio was quiet as he spoke. Their expressions ranged from mildly piqued curiosity to smug humor to outright surprise and horror. Clearly, they had not anticipated the loss of such a staple vessel in the Caribbean squad.

O'Rourke was impassive. "Were you able to authenticate that?" he asked stiffly.

"Mr. Sparrow was quite blatant in his admission of it, and Miss Swann also testified to the effect."

It was hard to say if the admiral was either dubious or completely unsurprised. "Go on."

Isla de Muerta required a tiny dash of obfuscation, not so much in what had happened at the island, but in why he had even dared to sail the _Dauntless_ within a stone's throw of it. Miss Swann's conditional request was stricken from the record, replaced with the continuing threat of the _Pearl_ as the motivating factor, a white fib facilitated by Sparrow's reasoning and his happily providing the coordinates. Twisting the words to suit a more practical choice would help lessen the blow that, thanks to sticking to duty, over two dozen sailors and Marines had been killed, with almost as many wounded because of it.

O'Rourke's eyebrows lifted at words _undead pirates_. "Come again?"

"A large group of assailants, rotting, half-clothed corpses, lay siege to the _Dauntless_, sir, the very same pirates constituting the _Black Pearl_'s crew."

Darrow, Galvio, and their lieutenants, having learned of it through their various connections, were unmoved by this clarification. They were too busy watching for their Kingston compatriots' reactions.

Greene and Lincoln were staring, torn between disbelief and shock.

Ridgeway frowned, dark with suspicion. "How is that possible?"

"We did not know then and there. It was only later that we learned of the Aztec curse that so enabled them to decimate our forces, in Port Royal and abroad."

"Is that so?" O'Rourke sounded dubious.

Norrington narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. "If you would be so curious, Admiral, I have several crewmen on call who would be more than happy to show you the wounds that have kept them on leave. Though I must point out we would be pressed to make the trip to each of their residences."

The sarcasm was justified. One commander could sympathize with another, having scores of men wounded in battle all because of such a far-fetched and unpredictable chance.

"If I may speak," Darrow spoke with gentle intervention. "The records bear that out, sir. Upon my return one month ere today I took note of the unusual number of men that had been given furloughs. I was sought out to lend hands of my own crew to fill the gaps."

"Well, that convinces me of the assertion you were certainly engaged in some frightful action, Commodore. But I find I'm having a hard time believing you suffered those losses through battling such... queerly spectral opponents."

Norrington steeled himself against the rush of fury. What he wouldn't have given for proof, something to exempt him from being credited as a zealous liar. "I'm ashamed to say we can only present our recollections of the engagement, sir. Had I some concrete evidence I would gladly offer it to you."

O'Rourke regarded Darrow and Galvio with a leveled glance. "You both support this story?"

"I can think of no reason why the Commodore would strive to be dishonest with you, sir. When he says he and his men fought off over two dozen undead attackers, I believe him."

Galvio nodded his muted agreement.

Norrington was grateful for their loyalty, however quietly versed it was. In part, he had banked on their words to persuade O'Rourke it was all factual. He may not have the admiral's total respect, but having the faith of the captains in his detachment counted for something.

Faced with that substantiated argument, and rather than dwell on the issue of credibility, O'Rourke leaned back. "Very well. And then?"

After Isla de Muerta was another dicey matter to recount: Sparrow's escape. The governor's offer of clemency to Turner became a moot gift, when said blacksmith intervened, rescuing the pirate from the gallows. Decidedly, Norrington skimmed over Miss Swann's say and role in all that, settling for _Sparrow got away in the end_, and capped the story off with the infamous one day's - or, now more appropriately known as, one _month_'s - head start, that was followed and swiftly negated by the _Echelon_'s early return.

"On top of all of this, you now wish Mr. Ridgeway and Mr. Lincoln to lend their ships under your command, to pilot an expedition to find and apprehend the _Corentin_, in addition to tracking down Sparrow's _Black Pearl_?" O'Rourke summarized, in an inert tone that gave rise to neither hope nor dismay.

Norrington adverted his eyes, directing them at the tabletop, hoping the gesture conveyed a petitioning air rather than a timorous one. "That's correct, sir."

Greene snorted, his disbelief out there for all to witness. Cagey by design, the spindly man's wit was a smart pairing to O'Rourke's steadfast impracticality. "Honestly, Commodore, after hearing all of that out of _your_ mouth, I'd be more inclined not to let you anywhere near another ship and have you submitted for a head check."

"Now that was uncalled for, Milo," Lincoln spoke up, with a belittling look. "I, for one, do not think that Westbrook, let alone the Admiralty, would consider him for the place if he were known for making up such fanciful tales. That you insinuate he would borders on insubordination."

_With an admiral on his side, he can 'insubordinate' all he wishes,_ Norrington thought wryly, though thankful for another vote of confidence. A reputation was good for at least one thing, it seemed.

"You're one to talk," Greene replied, undeterred. "Do you forget so readily this is James _Norrington_ we are talking about?"

Norrington kept his gaze still and stoic, already feeling the pinpricks of those long buried memories beginning to strike, again, eager to be acknowledged. Proverbial hackles quivered uneasily. Not for the first time since sending that letter, he was second-guessing the logic of requesting the _Tarpeian_.

"Let us not go into that," Gillette declared, on the same page. "We are all versed in those stories, and they have no significance here."

"Don't they? I find it all oddly coincidental."

"The Commodore has done nothing to necessitate such accusations, Captain, no mind what bearing they have on this latest matter."

"You believe it all unprecedented, that past events play no part?"

"A small part, yes. He is not the same person as you would have us believe he is."

"He is still the same man whose _Dauntless_ rushed to the _Interceptor_'s aid, isn't he? I'm sure you all remember the circumstances of that incident."

"Captain Greene, you are out of order," Darrow snapped, glowering, an expression mirrored by all those of the Port Royal posse.

Greene smirked conceitedly. His station as commander of a rear-admiral's flagship was oftentimes all that kept him from a court-martial, or, more often, a well-deserved throttling. "Am I? Or have I merely touched upon a subject the rest of you would sooner brush out the door than dredge up into a conversation?"

"Captain, please," O'Rourke. "We have not come here to discuss the dramatic."

"Fine, then. Barring histrionics, don't you all agree that there is a parallel that can be applied here?"

The irate looks faded, burning out to uncertainty and perplexity. No one nodded nor disagreed.

"The _Interceptor_ and the _Saga_. Two evenly matched ships, having at each other in the waters off of Black River. It grew into a very tedious and bloody pursuit, from what's been gathered. Then the _Dauntless_ gets tossed into the middle of it, and... kindly refresh my memory, sir, what was the outcome?"

"There was nothing to be done for those wounded, Captain," Norrington intoned warningly, though not quite a growl. "The _Interceptor_'s crew had suffered major losses even before we had sighted her."

"True. But isn't it also said that when you moved to engage the _Saga_ much of your initial broadside broke across her decks to strike the _Interceptor_'s rigging?"

"That wasn't our intent."

Greene's tone was biting and icy. "It happened nevertheless. Five men killed, crushed under fallen yards, including Commodore Westbrook."

"I regret that misfortune more than I can put into words. All the same, it could not be helped."

"It must have done that, the regret. Without pause, you proceeded to obliterate the _Saga_."

"And the _Interceptor_ was salvaged as a result."

"You saved the ship. You lost the crew."

"Men have been known to die in the course of innumerous actions exactly like that one, _Captain_."

"You actually expect the admiral to grant you even more lives to expend?"

"Captain!" O'Rourke was suddenly animated, on his feet, livid. A breathless hush descended among the onlookers. Greene stared back at him with a mix of surprise and rankling ire.

"Stand down."

Slowly, sullenly, Greene eased away from the table, sank deeper into his seat, and looked away.

"Commodore, I hope you will forgive Mr. Greene's effrontery. He has rather... _defined_ feelings on the subject."

"So I see," Norrington grumbled, harsh and grating, glaring at the top of his accuser's hat.

The admiral sat down, still furrowed with the waning ill-temper. "He does bring to the fore the peculiarities of your story, however, and I myself have questions that are best answered in time. On that note, I would think it prudent that this puzzle not be decided until we have all the parts out there for consideration. Do you agree?"

Scalding anger was snuffed out by cooler logic. "Entirely, sir."

"Very good."

--

The dinner party was a mixed bag of sentiments. It was not a grand occasion: no dancing, no coquetry, just polite chatter and fine food with no more than a dozen assorted guests. The mood was comfortably blithe, devoid of any tension. The sun was not yet gone, and cast all of Port Royal into a warm glow, turning the sea orange. The distant forms of the ships sat at anchor: the _Formidable_ rode beside the _Dauntless_, and the smaller _Tarpeian_ and _Mystic_ had dropped anchor a short distance from the pier.

Weatherby Swann had invited highest of society to celebrate the admiral's sojourn. Lincoln and Ridgeway were in attendance, the opposite of Greene's polite decline. Though short notice, the Brigances had seen fit to make the trip, and to bring their daughter along. Elizabeth had not failed to engage Judith in conversation, though whatever answers she received were very tepid in nature, testifying further to the latter's morose behavior.

Norrington started. He had, unknowingly, fallen into a stupor: staring listlessly down at the ships, watching the sun descend. In this state, he only caught the latter half of the question. Flustered, coming out of the reverie, he glanced sharply back to his left.

"I'm sorry, Captain. Could you repeat that?"

"I said, were you chaps able to sort everything in one go?" Taking no offense, Miles Wright drew a short draught of wine as he spoke. He came in Fritz's stead whenever possible, everyone knowing of and preferring his supremely open personality. "I'm having a knotty time getting a forthright answer out of anyone down that way."

Keen to be identified as the gracious host, Swann was busy familiarizing O'Rourke, the guest of honor, with the latest in Port Royal gossip. Those around them were listening with as much interest, meaning the opposite, older half of the elaborate dinner table.

Norrington regarded his plate of food, noting it was largely untouched, a consequence of having little appetite. "Let's suffice it to say nothing has been decided, Miles. A little drama went a good ways in preventing us from reaching a concensus."

"Oh? About what?"

"Pretty much all of it. The admiral wishes to approach each issue from every conceivable angle. It will certainly take a while longer than we anticipated to be judged."

"We won't be sailing off to apprehend the _Corentin_ anytime soon, then?"

"I'm afraid not. It would appear the welfare of Port Royal must come first."

"Why shouldn't it?"

Judith was by no means as outspoken as Elizabeth. It was a rare feat for her to be openly hostile in any case. And at the moment, she had abandoned all deference, staring with a cross glint in her eyes.

Elizabeth herself was quieted, looking on in mild alarm, already sensing where Miss Brigance was steering the conversation.

"Forgive my forwardness, Commodore, Captain. I can't help noticing neither of you have made any mention of the progress with the capture of the Rurusmic, or where the issue stands in your agenda."

The name had gotten around, courtesy of the prison guardsmen who knew enough French to small-talk Alouette. Somehow, that designation was easier for the populace to swallow than _dragon_.

Wright recovered first. "Miss Brigance, I'm sorry to say there is nothing new to tell you in regard to that. We have received no word of any further sightings at this time."

"Surely you've sent out patrols to look for the creature, haven't you?"

"At first, yes. You know as well as us their efforts met without reward."

"Have you ordered any since?"

Wright hesitated.

Norrington looked between them, carefully keeping his expression blank. It was no small secret that Judith Brigance was still reeling from the shock of her suitor's death. Nonetheless, the Commodore had not foreseen her intent to question them about it in this setting.

"We have not, Miss Brigance. The situation has produced no further need for it."

"Even should this matter not have gone stale, don't you think the continuing threat warrants such action?"

Though spoken softly, her tone was biting and critical. Enough to draw the curious, sidelong looks of Lincoln and Ridgeway, and Lady Victoria.

Elizabeth tried to be soothing. "Judith, please. This isn't the place for such talk."

"I must disagree with you there, Miss Swann. This is the first circumstance in which I have had an opportunity to speak with anyone in authority, and I assure I damn well intend to seize upon it. That animal killed almost a week ago and you have made no progress in locating it."

The mild use of vulgarity did it. The hall went abruptly silent. Horrified, appalled, or stunned, it was difficult to say which one was the must astute adjective.

Norrington held his reply in check, too busy focusing on keeping eye contact the frosty glare, letting his face convey the outward look of surprise.

O'Rourke was the sole person to look truly bewildered, eyes squinting in confusion. "What's this talk of an animal killing?"

"An unfolding state of affairs, sir," Wright replied hastily. "Were you not informed?"

"I wasn't."

Norrington felt the pale, suspect gaze resting on him, probing for a response. He met it after a moment's indecision. "It had no pertinence at the time of our earlier conversation, Admiral. I would be disposed to relay it, to you and the captains, but I also think it not a subject welcome at the governor's table. If His Excellency would please excuse us..."

"Oh," Swann exclaimed, struck by the genius of the suggestion. It was a tactful choice, severing military business from propriety. "No, it would not bear any offense. Please."

The air outside was warm, a breeze of intermixing smells from the sea and tropical jungle. Norrington found no cause to enjoy it. Tailed by the officers, led by a manservant to the nearest veranda, he did not look forward to telling them another ludicrously far-fetched story. There were chairs present, contradictory to how the group remained standing.

Stalling, Norrington waited until the nameless valet had disappeared, until the admiral had asked the first question, to voice an opening statement. "Pray don't think me barmy for saying so, sir, but as best I can describe it, the Rurusmic is a dragon-like animal, of a species civilized Man has not seen the likes of before, or if he has, has dismissed it as fantasy or drunken mettle. An incident of late has disproved my own feelings on the possibility of such a creature existing."

"Which was what, exactly?"

"The Brigances held an evening party no more than a week ago. In the midst of it, this animal attacked Captain Darrow's flag lieutenant, Orville Sanderson. Miss Brigance's outburst stems from her distress of his subsequent death."

Lincoln blinked. Ridgeway stared.

O'Rourke frowned. "How was he killed?"

"Envenomation. The wound itself was not fatal, but he passed away before the following sunset."

"And the animal?"

"It fled, sir. Quick action spared any more damage being done."

"Dragon-like," Lincoln repeated the word to himself. "That is how you would choose to describe it?"

"Why not a demon?" Ridgeway.

"There was nothing remotely human in the design. It was no demon."

"Have you any visual record of the beast to present?"

"Save for what my memory serves, no."

"Did you consider having an artist sketch an interpretation based on your account?"

The idea had occurred to him, and been discarded as having no use.

"Yes, at one point. But through common speak the description has become widespread. No one has laid eyes on the animal since its attack. If you still doubt its existence at all you may have leave to question Lieutenant Groves. He saw it as well as I."

The admiral was still frowning. "Then from what source was the name derived?"

"Our informant: the remaining pirate of the _Seraphine_'s crew."

"How would he know what it was you spoke of?"

Norrington drew a breath and held it, hoping the following words would not have them think falsely. "He claims to be a learned study in the topic of supernatural beasts."

"_Supernatural_ beasts?" O'Rourke's tone of disbelief matched the looks on the captains' faces.

"It's my understanding that he lived the life of a recluse, cataloguing and observing the behavior of animals the rest of Europe thinks to be fantasy."

"Have any of his deductions proved true?"

"Yes, and in the gravest of ways. His declaration that the Rurusmic was venomous turned out to be correct. You heard for yourselves Miss Brigance's testimony on the matter."

"In that light, she brings up a point," Lincoln said thoughtfully. "Why haven't there been any further searches?"

"The informant described the creature as a shy night-dweller. He did not think it would try to take another human after failing to bring down its first victim." _Immediately, anyway._ "And thus far that has been the case."

"You and your staff have had better things to do with your time than bring the threat of Mr. Sanderson's killer to an end?"

There was the accusation he had anticipated.

Norrington met Ridgeway's half-glare with a defensive scowl. "Hardly. I regret it when I say we have been preoccupied with other matters, but the situation has not burgeoned on to warrant any greater action. Except for this Frenchman's shady word, we haven't any more guidance to draw advice from." The pause was long enough to let it sink in, but not to give a response. "Extermination would have been my sole choice of order if the opposite were true, and the blasted creature had been apprehended. We would have dealt with it outright, and Miss Brigance would have had no grounds to voice her late objection."

"We do not doubt that, Commodore," Ridgeway said, in a tone that neither supported or opposed what was spoken.

"Were he present, I dare to say your Mr. Greene would beg to differ."

Taking the biting words, O'Rourke spoke up, "So long as this visitation is a pillar of honesty, you should know we happen to agree with his deference. We're simply not as quick to judge you, based on the last decade of your career."

"All that aside, you still upheld Commodore Westbrook's preliminary recommendation?"

"The man was a close colleague and friend. At the time I trusted his choice to be a sound one."

_Up until the _Saga _most like._ "And now?"

"It was the Admiralty's decision, not mine. However unorthodox your name's family reputation was, I agreed with the Board in that it was a worthy appointment based on your individual merits, and anything else should not have significant bearing on the decision. Although I do find it unwont that your first month of command was filled with such... delusionary mishaps."

_Delusionary. Ha._ _Strange, yes, and had I foreseen any of it, I would have thought myself mad._

"Yes, sir. No less than the standard security actions have been implemented, and I sincerely hope you will find those measures satisfactory."

Neither captain looked totally appeased, edgy, wanting to challenge that claim on the spot. Lincoln, in particular, seemed given to debate, as the acting captain of a vessel with such a particular name.

O'Rourke, on the other hand, nodded and looked assured, more willing to compromise.

"The current standards being what they are, I have no doubt as to the effort made to meet them. Still, I will not pass an early judgment on any of it until time has had her say in the investigation. As for this latest incursion, it must wait one day more. I will explain as much to Miss Brigance, see if I can't placate her misgivings. Frayed tempers must be given the opportunity to be mend before soundly-judged conclusions can be reached. Until then, let us speak no more of this."

Both captains held their replies fast, simply inclining their heads in agreement.

In no hurry to return to the dining hall, Norrington lingered a moment after they had gone, chancing a look down at the bay. The line of warships held his attention, hulls spotted with countless cannonports, their grander designs setting them apart from their merchantman charges.

The _Tarpeian_ stood out from the rest: fewer guns, slender, trim.

Named the second fastest in the fleet once upon a time, after her sister.

The Commodore stood there, staring at her, before he tore his gaze away.

So much for making good first impressions.

**TBC**

**Notes:** I blame a newfound addiction to _Saints Row_, and school, for the delay in the release of this chapter.

As for this being released on March 1st, if you call yourself a fan of James, and don't know what this date signifies, you don't know Jack (Davenport, that is).

**Feng Yue** - Ah, a learned _Temeraire_ fan has reviewed: yesness. I'm glad you're taking such delight in reading this, canon elements and all. Rest assured, there is more to come. And I must credit _The Green Flash_, by **rose of england**, for first touching on the idea (can be found #31 in my Favorites roster).

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 2/28/08


	14. Through The Motions

**Disclaimer:** All canon "Pirates Of The Caribbean" content is © Walt Disney Enterprises. All canon "Temeraire" content is © Naomi Novik. All original content (plotline, novel characters) is © Orca/grayorca. No financial profit was made in the writing of this story.

**Author's Notes:** This chapter should better explain the previous installment's title. Lots of exposition to begin with - that's what took so long to figure out. The fifteenth chapter ought to reveal even more.

And the bit about grievances (gripes) was borrowed from _Saving Private Ryan_. Props to His Excellency, Mr. Spielberg.

Thanks to nug for favoriting the story.

--

_**"Bête Noire"  
**__by Orca/grayorca_

--

_Chapter Fourteen - Through The Motions_

He could have gone without being reminded of the whirlwind of events that had preceded his latest promotion. They had been rife with flouted controversy and drabble. History had threatened to repeat itself in accordance with O'Rourke's visit, and by the decree to relinquish most of his command to the admiral, she had done exactly that. The social ramifications had resurfaced in earnest.

Liberty had its defects. It gave him time to think, too much. To bethink when he least wanted to remember.

It was all sufficient groundwork for a mild headache to entrench on and make itself at home.

On the plus side, he wasn't entirely without confidant.

After a few days ground by, Nyx appeared to finally take sense of this distress. Though she dined with more speed than usual, again, the conversation that was typically wed to it was sparser in amount. She ate with a heightened level of civility, delicately chewing up the messiest of the corpses and occasionally wiping at her chops. Afterward she cleaned her talons with especial care, splashing her face into the tide to rinse the smell away.

The moon, in its waning quarter cycle, casting harsh, ghostly rays, had made its climb by the point she crept back up to the edge of the beach. With the vacant responses answering, her tirade of questions came more and more slowly, at last falling into a silence permeated only by the sea's gentle rasp.

He finally heaved a sigh and yielded, albeit without looking at her. "You do realize you are staring, right?" Her etiquette lessons had not been limited to dining tips.

"_Yes._" Undaunted, she blinked. "_Something troubles you._"

Norrington glanced at the pale eyes peering up at him. The dragon lay in the sandy grass, curled in a loose semi-circle, limbs tucked beneath her body. He sat within the curve, facing the bay, without leaning back against the offered hide. Taking note of his deepening slouch, he squared his shoulders, looked out to sea, and said nothing.

Nyx took it as a reply. Interested, her serpentine neck rose. "_Has the admiral made his ruling yet?_"

Three very long, tedious days, best described as checking and re-checking every little bit of Port Royal. Milo Greene was doing a fine job of keeping O'Rourke busy, rooting out the imperfections and digging deep into the archives.

Cast aside, to the outskirts of the investigation, summoned only for a few brief meetings in that time, Norrington had done his best to stay occupied: inspecting his attendantly-neglected home, assessing and rechecking his current finances, making small talk with local faces whenever they had time to spare. This search for activity had gone on to reveal he was terribly shorthanded when it came to hobbies outside of work. He had to admit, after the first twenty-four hours, that besides duty and worrying, there wasn't much else that could distract him from the elements of his profession.

A clause of a pact that included spending more time off-duty, at night, he took fresh interest making sure Nyx was keeping out of sight. It was an almost pointless endeavor. To her aptitude she had become very good at hiding, disappearing into the trees or squeezing into the niches betwixt old structures, and grown accustomed to spending little time within the town's perimeters. Her sense of hearing and smell were incessantly sharp, always pricked for the slightest hint of danger. He had learned to allow her keep a half-watch for intrusions.

As a result, some comfortable slipshod mood had come over her caretaker. He was almost careless enough to be content to drag this conversation out.

"No," Norrington replied doggedly. "He isn't yet near rendering a verdict."

"_Why? What has he been spending all this time on?_"

"Everything there is aside from the _Interceptor_ and Isla de Muerta. Greene has gotten him bound and determined to inspect every nuance of the colony, to validate how civilized Port Royal has become."

"_Including that which isn't under your control?_"

"By their interpretation, yes."

"_Is that what you're thinking about?_"

"At length."

The dragon's head rotated, eyes slitting in bewilderment. Her curiosity, if anything, grew more intense. "_Was that a lie?_"

Glancing away, he said nothing, another answer in itself. Her inexperience with that type of versed evasion spoke for itself.

The slits drew even narrower, frustrated. Folded wings rippled uneasily. "_James, I am not daft. I have seen how anxious you've been these last few evenings. Can you fault me for being concerned?_"

"That is not for you to worry about. I have been through more trying times in my career than at present." He stroked her muzzle, a vain attempt to soothe. "Do not burden yourself so much."

Frowning, she drew away from the touch, regarding him with a shrewd look. "_The more I think of not thinking about it, the more it bothers me. If you would just tell me what bothers you so, I shall happily desist._"

She had developed a trait of avid persistence, pushing the envelope until she got one of two things: an answer, or a lecture.

"There is nothing to tell, Nyx. It's all dust from the past. It would serve no purpose other than to bore you."

"_Oh? Then perhaps I should understand your position better if you were to stop changing course and offer me an anecdote._"

Norrington could recognize his own brand of sarcasm when he heard another use it. It would do no good to strain her trust. An abbreviated tale would be enough. The Commodore obliged her with as much.

At the latter end of it, she only looked more compelled to ask and pry. "_And Greene wants you held accountable for _that"

"The man cannot be labeled as _forgive and forget_ sort of individual."

"_Why? He cannot blame you solely responsible for those results, on_ that _basis._"

"If the pirates of the _Saga_ were still of this Earth I'm certain he would be happy and quick to rebuke them, too. How unfortunate for me they weren't a more courageous lot. Most of them cut their own throats rather than be taken prisoner."

Nyx sighed, a low rumble that issued from somewhere deep inside. Discontent, she rose, languidly shuffling around to sit beside him. Her stocky neck bent, to keep their eyes at the same level. "_That doesn't give him any more right to claim Commodore Westbrook's death was by your hand._"

"Whether you approve or not, he has every right to, Nyx. There is no one else to saddle the responsibility with. Know that passion for a cause can be healthy in moderation, but you must not let it blind you to reason."

_There's something to retort to Greene next you see him._

"_Have you been given a chance to explain, then?_"

"Somewhat. I told you what became of our first conference. He was happy to debate the issue. At this rate, it all could prove sufficient motivation for O'Rourke to convene a court of honor."

Puzzled look. "_What is that?_"

"A tribunal, one that inspects breaches of social protocol or etiquette, most times. In a militaristic context it is a process of investigation and judgment used to examine acts that are thought to be unbecoming of an officer or a gentleman."

"_Isn't that what a... court-martial does?_"

"Yes, in the case of more serious offenses."

"_Wouldn't losing the _Interceptor _qualify?_"

"No doubt." With a half smile, he explained: "It doesn't mean I can't hold out the hope for some lenity."

The dragon was not humored. She blinked a deliberate blink. "_That was not amusing, James._"

The attempt at wryness dissolved. "No, it's not. But what good does it aid to fret and scruple over what may not even come to pass?"

Taking in the sobered face, the pallid eyes became less patronizing and more acceptful. Her neck dipped lower, letting her narrow chin settle on his left shoulder. "_Not very much._"

Norrington lifted an eyebrow at her, not entirely convinced of the dragon's total acceptance, that it would be let go then and there. Replying to the rhetorical was a habit Nyx had yet to grow out of. Gently amending his earlier orders, he stroked her muzzle in reassurance. "As I should have said, don't let it ail you _now_. There will be time enough for that later."

--

Offhand, the Commodore could not recall the last time he had seen Lane, the modest, reserved, expressionless Samuel Lane, looking so agitated.

Nor had he ever heard him complain so much.

"The man's a right scandalmonger is what he is, distracting the admiral with all this fuss," the lieutenant grumbled, echoing what must have been the mutual sentiments of all those present in the room, or else he would know better than to speak in that fashion in the presence of subordinates.

In addition to clerks, two midshipmen of the _Dauntless_, Kinsley and Flemish, were in attendance. They were wordlessly seeing to the tasks given to them, though it was clear through their slow and halting work both were better suited to minding a warship's deck than digging through stacks of reports and received dispatches.

Lane had taken their visiting commander aside, and was altogether not shy of expressing his opinions. "Would you believe some of the things he has us looking for?"

"Given some time, I have come to see the logic in it, Lieutenant," Norrington replied mildly, delaying a list of specifics. "On one's own leave or not, it is not my place to say anything, anyway. Remember – grievances go up, not down."

With a long suffering eye roll, Lane gave an abbreviated salute of recognition. "Aye aye, they do, sir. If you don't mind me saying so, it doesn't excuse Captain Greene's lack of banality."

"I suppose. Then again, this was not what any of us had come to anticipate." _Us_ meaning officers, for Norrington didn't think the noncoms were aware of (or cared for) the recent friction between the higher rungs of command. How the Commodore and his stationed staff had jumped to the conclusion that there would be more to fear from the admiral than the captain of his flagship had proven to be the greatest mistake.

"Greene ought to have left well enough alone. He has enough smarts to know when seniority should bow to talent. Instead he's out and about, managing a good job of pulling the wool over the eyes."

"From what I am told, Joseph O'Rourke is renowned for being a fastidious character," Norrington replied, going for what-must-have-passed-as hollow optimism. "Even with the captain's help, I'm sure he will not stray off what matters and raise a mess of it."

With asserted decisiveness and a rare display of sarcasm, Lane quipped, "Sir, with no disrespect meant, he's an admiral in His Majesty's Royal Navy. He is _paid_ to complicate things."

--

"Of course we think it is nonsense."

Outside, the source Lane's resentful tones became evident. The cool, shaded interior of the fort was less agreeable than the comfortably tepid breezes of the outdoors. Light cloud cover diluted the sun's burning rays to a tolerable warm.

Taking a page from the local inhabitants, Lincoln and Ridgeway were making the most of it. While resplendent in epauletted coats and golden-cockaded tricornes, their blasé manners and loosened neckcloths belayed the standoffish airs of their initial greetings. Crews divided, on shore leave or tending to their brigs, at a half hour before midday the captains were free to roam.

Off the record, unattached from the admiral's entourage, they were keener for verbal speculation on their comrade's behavior. Something Norrington was inwardly grateful for: a vote of uncertainty from the opposition that could do wonders for a would-be defense.

"Or," Ridgeway thought aloud, second guessing. "It's not so much nonsense as... peculiar."

"Implying what, Captain?"

"Greene has five experience years on either of us, sir," Lincoln explained, as Ridgeway struggled to mince the words. "We have long known him to become engrossed with a given matter from time to time, like the admiral. But this latest bout of it is singularly fervid even by those standards."

Norrington offered a calm glance 'round; this reaffirmed the established notion the yard was vacant. With the exception of redcoated sentries patrolling the battlements above their heads, and the rest gone to noon mess, it was deceptively quiet.

"I wonder: could his conduct have something to do with his opinion of the merits put toward earning my title?"

Bewilderment was to be seen in both sets of blue eyes.

Lincoln. "It may, sir."

_Why don't you ask him?_

Norrington half-expected to hear the tag come from one of them. _Him_ meaning Greene, _ask_ referring to a formal inquest that could just as easily inflame the aforementioned man's temper.

"Perhaps the admiral might know more than either of you?"

Ridgeway nodded, grateful for the supplement. "He may very well. Greene has been his adherent for as long as he was made post."

Their conversation carried on in that vein, and then on to other vague topics of interest, for a time. A stout, dark-skinned boy materialized from one of the shaded archways, relaying a whispered message to Lincoln. He made no verbal response, a tip of the head enough to send the boy away.

"Captain Galvio requests our presence at the docks. Commodore, if you'll excuse us..."

With no objections, and no further imminent business to preoccupy him, Norrington counter-saluted and turned away from their retreating backs. Neither by intent or instinct, he wandered to the overhang, where Elizabeth's fall into the ocean had set this topical pirate activity in motion, the same one that held so spectacular a vantage point above the colony. A mix of curiosity and unease slowly drew his eyes away from the intended sight, the glittering horizon, directing them down toward the harbor.

The scene, viewed via a spyglass, leapt into greater focus. The shabby, half-clothed bodies of sailors swarmed about the _Maverick_, on deck and in the rigging, miniscule and busy as ants. Discerning the blue coats of the lieutenants from the rest separated them from the crowds. One scarlet figure, the silver epaulettes marking him as Fritz, supervised from the quarterdeck. Henry Galvio stalked all about his ship, halting the various stations, making circuits of the gangways.

A routine in-port exercise, with maintenance happening below decks, aimed at keeping the crew busy.

Norrington lowered his glass, finding nothing outwardly bizarre with the sight. He frowned in concentration nevertheless, as his short-term memories chose to blithely him of the errand boy's covert words.

From an outside stance, it looked like Galvio had everything perfectly under control.

What could he possibly be summoning the visiting post-captains down there for?

Norrington's departure from Fort Charles went without any great diversion or interruption, giving him five minutes of complete silence to think on the probable answers. Port Royal, playing host to three extra warships, had a surplus of officers bustling about the garrison, examining dispatches, processing incoming or outgoing correspondence, putting the Marines through their paces in the yard.

The Commodore had not gone ten paces from the main gate when he found himself intercepted by his own messenger. In shorts and a straw hat, this face was one he pegged as local.

"Tobias," Norrington greeted, recognizing the son of his infrequent housekeeper. "What brings you out this way?"

Though short, the boy was in his early teens, working as a stable boy with Lieutenant Newnham's mounted guards. Most weekdays found him there from sunrise to sundown. To see him anywhere near the fort on a Saturday was odd indeed.

"This, sir. It was brought by courier to your home naught two hours ago," From a pocket, Tobias withdrew the folded parchment and handed it over. "I was told to bring it to you, no nonsense."

Turning the piece on its face, Norrington took immediate note of the wax seal, more specifically the design of an elaborate coat of arms that had been pressed into it.

A seal that could only be made by a signet ring owned by one Weatherby Swann.

Unless the governor had been careless enough to leave it upon the desk in his study, where his daughter might procure it for her own use, it was an authentic summons.

Tobias stood there, anticipating some rejoinder.

"You were right to be quick about it," Norrington replied, courteously offering the boy a shilling for his trouble. "My compliments for your service."

Lifting his hat in thanks, Tobias scampered away, back toward the market. Norrington regarded the piece of post in silence, considering whether or not to delay its opening until he was home, and opted not to wait. Popping the seal, the letter unfolded to display its contents. A skimming glance at the paragraph, written in a delicate, flowing hand of ink, confirmed his initial suspicions.

Signed, Elizabeth.

It was a conscious effort to restrain his hand from not crumpling the invitation into a wrinkled mess. Apprehension stewed, in synchronization with the latest onset of restless nerves. The Commodore glanced southwest where, somewhere in that direction, unobscured by the reaches of the jungle, he knew the Swann manor rested high on the rise.

The long walk there didn't concern him.

Nowadays a social call from the governor's daughter, vice versa in that it brought him to her, meant one of two things: questions or an opinion of his recent trials, or thoughts on Nyx.

Neither of which he would prefer to be told about, especially by her.

He sincerely hoped it was something else entirely.

**TBC**

**Notes:** It seems a little ridiculous, but this is all that came to me in the whole month of March. Well, when you have this newfound ambition to write your own historic novel, fan fiction gets put on the backburner. What can I say?

(with hands pressed together) Apologies.

**Shandathe** - Thanks for your review and the story watch. I'm glad you, as well as a few others here, find this crossover so doable. A small number of reviews isn't that discouraging. With that being said, for those who are around for the updates, there are more elements of both universes yet to come.

_-Orca/grayorca  
_fin 3/27/08


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